


Living Through The End

by ObsidianButterfly



Series: Living Through The End [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Multi, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 64,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianButterfly/pseuds/ObsidianButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is more than a highly brilliant, super-intelligent Government agent; he also holds a secret privy only to his brother Sherlock and a select few. He is not entirely normal, he is not entirely human, and he is not entirely alive. </p>
<p>Unfortunately John Watson is about to become involved in Holmes family secrets and dysfunctionality much more than he would have liked</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Ratings for much later chapters. There will be violence, death, hurt/comfort, abuse, rape, incest
> 
>  
> 
> Part One: What The Doctor Saw.
> 
>  
> 
> London, 2011

John wearily dragged himself out the cab and up the front steps of 221B Baker Street.

Ah, home at last, he thought to himself as he rolled tired shoulders. He had been visiting his sister Harriet but well…well things had went the way they usually did; both of them ended up rehashing old arguments and unwilling to admit their mistakes. 

As a result, he left his sisters in a foul mood a few days earlier than expected and caught a train back to London.

Sliding his key into the lock, he didn’t bother knocking on Mrs Hudson’s door-she would be in the café working. He did wonder what Sherlock might be up to. Sherlock wasn’t expecting him home so soon, he may be working on a case, or perhaps he was out of the flat. 

John gave a small smile in memory how his friend practically pouted and sulked when he told him that he would be gone for a few weeks visiting his sister. Mycroft assured him that he would find something for his younger brother to do and keep him fully occupied until he returned. 

John did, in fact, offer to take Sherlock along but he politely declined. Well, when he said politely, that in itself was him being polite. To be honest the small petty part of him would have enjoyed Sherlock winding Harriet up mercilessly with his observations and snippy comments.

Opening the sitting room door, John thought he better see if his friend was home, he was hungry so maybe they could go out for lunch. It was highly unlikely his flatmate would have bothered to stock the fridge while he was away.

‘Sherlock! You in?’

The words died in his mouth as his gaze fell across a distinctly unusual and horrifying sight in the Baker street sitting room. Sherlock was indeed home and he wasn’t alone. 

His mind couldn’t quite process what he was seeing; the shock and unexpectedness rooted him to the spot just inside the doorway. John was well aware that his mouth was likely hanging wide open but couldn’t quite work up the motor function to make it stop.

Sherlock sat in his usual chair with long, lean legs folded underneath him. His deep purple shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, showing off a long expanse of slender, deathly pale, body.

The top of Mycroft’s auburn head was just visible, hunched over the chair and standing behind his brother, one arm wrapped around his upper chest, holding the younger man’s back firmly against the chair. Mycroft’s head was buried in the crook of Sherlock’s exposed neck, nose brushing his exposed collar.

Sherlock’s eyes slid to the doorway where John was standing, his mouth dropped open at the sight of his friend’s sudden return. 

It was the most disturbing expression John had ever seen on his face, he would never forget it. He didn’t think he had ever seen Sherlock so, so shocked? Upset? He looked almost…embarrassed.

Mycroft’s head snapped up, eyes of pale blue fire racking over John’s still form as his brother gave a small almost inaudible whisper, ‘John!’

‘Uhhh,’ was all his throat managed to work out, as John’s brain fought to string coherent sentences together. He watched as Mycroft straightened sharply, grabbed his coat and umbrella and headed swiftly for the door, almost barrelling him out the way.

Sherlock too, was on his feet, hastily fastening his shirt and pointedly not looking at him. Jesus, thought John, is that blood on his neck?! 

Movement in the corner of his eye as Mycroft headed for the door jerked a response from him. Sluggish from shock, John turned on the spot as Sherlock’s brother brushed past.

‘Hey, hang on a minute, what the hell is going on here?!’

Too late, he was out the door and John could hear Mycroft’s footsteps on the stairs. He rounded on the other figure in the room.

‘Sherlock?’

‘You are home early.’ John knew by his tone that he was trying to change the subject but he was having none of it.

‘Sherlock! What is going on?’ 

Sherlock’s voice was a cool, deliberate brush off. ‘None of your concern.’

‘None of my- what was he doing?’ John was aware his voice was rising and perhaps becoming laced with a touch of hysteria but he couldn’t seem to contain himself. Sherlock on the other hand, his voice was becoming dangerously low, a warning edge that he usually used when threatening people. 

‘Keep out of it John, I warn you.’

‘Warn me? W-was he…biting you? Oh god, was that blood?’

John flinched slightly at the hard look Sherlock gave him, the younger man’s eyes fixed on him in a penetrating gaze as if he was looking right into his soul. Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to say something but a shadow crossed his friend’s features and he seemed to change his mind.

‘It is nothing to do with you. It is a family matter. I am not discussing it, now drop it.’

‘I can’t just drop it-‘

‘Please John!’

A barrage of questions and accusations were about to tumble from his lips, all of which more fantastical than the last and probably, he thought, entirely baseless, as he had no idea what exactly he just witnessed. 

It was the ‘please’ that did it. Sherlock rarely uttered the word. The infuriatingly, antisocial detective was not one for social niceties yet John still called him friend. He was his best friend truth be told, despite all the unusual quirks. The man never begged or pleaded, there was not one bone of contrition in his body. Unless, of course, he was manipulating him.

He didn’t think Sherlock was manipulating him, well, not this time at least. John pictured the look of horror on Sherlock’s features when he walked in the door and caught them. The younger Holmes really did hate to talk about himself or deal with any type of personal questions or dilemmas. John knew that he could sit here and pester him all day but if Sherlock didn’t want to talk to him, then the stubborn idiot wouldn’t budge an inch.

Watching Sherlock’s retreating back, he mumbled something about work before sliding into his bedroom and closing the door. John was left standing, staring at the solid expanse of dark wood, a little confused, a little shocked, a little worried even; his mind reeling with the most unusual thoughts. 

What were they doing? A fight? Was Mycroft abusing him? It looked suspiciously as if he were kissing him or even biting, and well there was blood, however Sherlock’s shirt was open and one of Mycroft’s hands had disappeared under the open flap of purple silk. 

Oh dear lord, were they having sex?! Was this some kind of weird, kinky…he shut down those thoughts quickly, he didn’t have the words. 

He suddenly felt very ill at the possibilities. They were brothers, surely they couldn’t have…oh God, he needed to sit down.

John sank into an armchair contemplating putting his head between his knees in an effort to stop his head swimming. Tea. He definitely needed a cup of tea and perhaps something to scour the images from his mind.


	2. Avoiding the question

The next day, having had no contact with his friend since he returned, John tried to engage Sherlock over breakfast, hoping that over time, his flatmate would come up with a completely logical and simple explanation. Really John would have accepted any flimsy excuse at the moment just to put his mind at ease.

Much to his dismay, Sherlock resolutely refused to talk to him about anything to do with Mycroft or what they happened to be doing when he walked in. He brushed off questions with his usual blunt and superior demeanour.

That night John had lain wide awake in bed, unable to sleep and turning over all the events in his mind. He could hear Sherlock moving around downstairs, the lack of sleep that man took was occasionally alarming. He had a hundred and one questions and made up his mind to doggedly pursue the detective for answers, but in the morning. For some reason he couldn’t quite work up the courage to drag himself out of bed and downstairs to confront Sherlock at 4am.

Inexplicable anger filled him now. He had been shocked before, stunned into silence, but now; If the roles were reversed then he knew for a fact Sherlock wouldn’t accept John’s casual brush off to leave it be. No he would get the truth no matter what.

True, Sherlock probably wouldn’t need to ask what was going on. He could have deduced it all on his own but at the moment John didn’t really have a clue.

He had the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was avoiding him. Normally he couldn’t go anywhere without his flatmate in tow. Sherlock infuriatingly hung around Baker Street when not on a case, even when John pointedly expressed the desire for time to himself. He had to constantly tag along to crime scenes, murder scenes, anything and everything the younger Holmes happened to be working on but now Sherlock seemed to be hiding in his room or else feigning excessive concentrating on lab experiments in the kitchen.

 

 

The silence carried on for a week. 

John did ask. He would occasionally pounce on his flatmate with a few questions. None of which were ever answered so eventually and resignedly, he gave up. Sherlock’s tone had become brisk, he gave the impression of normalcy between them but John could feel the strain. 

Eventually his questions were met with scathing comments on his own life; the backlash of Sherlock’s anger began to hurt just a little so he dropped it.

He had also not seen or heard from Mycroft.

The Government official had a tendency to turn up often to see his brother. Sherlock insisted it was to spy and keep tabs on him but John had always believed, deep down, that it was out of care and consideration. He was, after all, Sherlock’s brother and Sherlock was a man that certainly needed to be looked out for, not only his own safety but others around him. The man had an exasperating knack for getting himself into trouble.

Now however, John wasn’t quite sure Mycroft’s interest was solely out of brotherly concern. 

He did have a number for Mycroft’s office from a time when he presented to Sherlock and John was left to do all the leg work and consult with the older Holmes directly. A few days after the incident, and getting nowhere with his flatmate, John gave it a ring, thinking that perhaps Mycroft may explain if his brother would not. 

The phone rang out each time.

 

 

That is it, he thought one morning after a rather tetchy, superficially polite breakfast with Sherlock. He wasn’t imagining it. Both brothers were being cagy, something was distinctly off. If what was going on was nothing or innocent then one of them would have had no trouble explaining.

So John laid a trap. Over breakfast he informed Sherlock that he would be meeting his old buddy Stamford for lunch and a few pints. He would be gone all day; they may even make a night of it so not to wait up.   
Really he had no intention of meeting Stamford. John dressed smartly, as if he were making an effort for a night on the town and left Baker Street with Sherlock idly playing his violin and having no plans himself for the day. 

Heading straight to Speedy’s café, John got a cup of coffee and waited.

After the fourth or fifth cup, he was beginning to think this wouldn’t work. Perhaps he made a mistake or wasn’t quite as cunning as he thought he was? However patience was rewarded and sure enough, after a few hours, a sleek black Jag pulled up outside 221. 

Mycroft! Got him!

John watched the older Holmes slide out the back seat and head into the building. He tensely waited a quarter of an hour before leaving the cafe and following him in.

John practically crept into the flat, easing himself up the landing stair on all fours. He opened the front door to the sitting room a crack, cursing the creaking of the hinges and peered around the doorway.   
Nothing. The Holmes brothers were not in the sitting room.

As quietly as he could, he manoeuvred himself into the apartment, wondering where on earth they were. Checking the small kitchen and finding no sign, the most horrible knot formed in his gut as glanced towards Sherlock’s closed bedroom door.

Time seemed to slow irrefutably as he shuffled towards Sherlock’s bedroom, knowing without even looking, that the two men were in there. His fingers were shaking slightly as he reached out to the door knob. He paused, fingers millimetres from the brass handle. 

John had a sudden attack of consciousness. Could he do it? Should he? Did he really, really want to walk in on the pair of them doing…whatever it was he thought they were doing.

Talking a deep breath he eased the handle and pushed forward delicately. The door opened a fraction, just enough for him to peer into the room. 

The room was in twilight, dark heavy draped blocking out the early summer sun. John could feel the heat and stuffiness radiating from within. He could see the back of Sherlock’s dark curls, head turned away from the door. His shirt and jacket were completely thrown open his time but his naked upper body was half hidden by Mycroft. For some reason Mycroft was still fully dressed in crisp tailored suit but his long body was sprawled on top of his brother, pushing him into the soft mattress.

John cringed as he hear small, muffled moans from his flatmate whose body was writhing underneath, legs tangled together and Mycroft’s arms pinning him down. The older Holmes face also turned away, mouth working across Sherlock’s collar bone.

He had seen enough, more than enough! John suddenly felt slightly sick. Dizzy and stumbling backwards, letting the door slip closed, he backed into a pile of testing equipment lying on the kitchen table. The noise was deafening as test tubes, metal pans and papers fell to the floor, but he didn’t care. He had to get out this house. 

Turning, John fled out Baker Street, not quite knowing where he was going but needing time to himself. He was already halfway down the Street by the time Sherlock rush out the door to his bedroom, Mycroft just behind, alerted by the noise. John didn’t see the expression of his friend face when he concluded who had made the mess and just what he had witnessed.


	3. The Truth

John wandered the streets of London for hours, even as night fell and a chill filled the air. He had no jacket but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t sure if he was numb with shock or disgust. How could he not have known what was going on? The two years he had known Sherlock, how had he never seen this before? Was it always like this?   
Perhaps he was too slow and dull-witted as Sherlock always claimed he was or maybe this was new. Maybe he hadn’t missed anything and whatever this was between the Holmes brothers had just started.

It was very late when he eventually worked his way back to Baker Street, dreading going through the door. When he finally plucked up courage to go inside he found the flat in darkness, soft muffled snores came from Sherlock’s room. John turned and went to his own bed.

 

 

Another restless night, tossing and turning in bed. Perhaps he should move out? Could he still honestly live here with what he had learned today? He wasn’t quite sure what he should do with this knowledge or if there was anything he should do. They were both adults. In a way, John supposed, it had nothing to do with him.

Rolling over he pounded the pillows. But Sherlock was his friend! Maybe he could talk some sense into him, or…or, or something. A horrible sinking feeling in his gut forced him to realise that he may just have lost his best friend.

Right. He made up his mind. He would turn up at Mycroft’s office since he didn’t want to talk to him on the phone and hopefully pester him enough get some answers. Maybe confront him. Try to understand, to get some sort of reason or excuse.

 

 

He rose early in the morning, showered, changed in record time and grabbed a few slices of toast as he headed out the door before Sherlock had even got out of bed. John wasn’t sure he could face him. Number one, he didn’t quite know what to say and number two he suddenly and unexpectedly felt betrayed in his friendship. 

Mycroft however, Mycroft he could have it out with. John would not hesitate to pick a fight with the older Holmes. He didn’t quite know him as well and he had an unexplained feeling that this was somehow down to him.

 

 

Arriving at the unassuming central London address of Mycroft’s office, John was still astounded at the ease of simply walking up to his door. Surely with someone of his level of influence should be surrounded by guards and security cameras? Even a bloody metal detector or something at the front door should be present!

The heavy wooden door was unmarked but he had been here before so knew where he was going. He raised his fist, about to knock, but then changed his mind. He wasn’t very well going to be respectful if the pair of them couldn’t do him the courtesy of a few truthful answers. John turned the handle hoping Mycroft hadn’t changed offices since he was last here.

The older Holmes was sitting at his desk behind a stack of unmarked brown paper folders, casually flicking through each one. Head bent over the desk but his eyes rolled up at the noise as John walked into the room.

Placing the folder he had in his hand back on the pile, Mycroft straightened in his chair, self-consciously tugging his waistcoat and jacket down.

His voice was perfectly neutral as he said, ‘Dr Watson, to what do I owe the visit?’

John wasn’t fooled. Closing the door he marched right over to the desk and sat in the chair opposite. It earned him a raised eyebrow from Mycroft but nothing more.

‘You know bloody hell why I’m here.’

Mycroft spread his palms, feigning innocence, ‘Enlighten me.’

‘What is going on with you and Sherlock?’ John was aware his voice was rising ever so slightly, his tone was certainly not neutral, even he could hear the hostility in his own voice, Mycroft was bound to pick up on it.

‘I am very busy Doctor; I have no time to discuss my brother and his eccentricities today, thank you and good day.’

He bent his head back to his reading. Mycroft’s tone indicated finality to the conversation leaving John no mistake that he was dismissed.

John’s blood boiled, how dare he! The pompous oaf! 

Snatching the file out Mycroft’s hand he slammed it down on the table between them, almost knocking the other papers to the floor.

‘Damn it Mycroft I want to know what is going on. Now!’

Both Mycroft’s eyebrows rose alarmingly to his hairline, betraying a brief surprise at John’s reactions. He had no idea he could get so volatile. Sherlock tested even the most patient man’s temper but he had never quite seen a display like this form the good Doctor. He eased back in his chair, giving John his full attention.

‘What has Sherlock told you?’

‘I want to hear this from you!’

Mycroft’s lip quirked ever so slightly. ‘My brother hasn’t told you anything.’

‘He won’t talk to me.’

‘He never talks to anyone, why should you be special?’

John frowned, ‘I’m his friend.’

‘Ahhh, so is your anger directed at Sherlock for not telling you or yourself for not realising sooner?’

Talking a deep shaky breath, he closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten, ‘Can the psychology Mycroft, I want to know what you are doing to Sherlock and why.’

To John’s shock, Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. His hand came up to massage his temples. Finally he rested his elbows on the table, head in his hands, eyes boring into him. His gaze was piercing, with a shock John realised just how must like his brother Mycroft really was.

He sounded almost weary, voice soft and unsure when he finally mumbled, ‘How do you think this is going to go John, hmmm? What could I possibly say to make this acceptable? What would you like to hear? What answer is going to make you sleep easier at night?’

‘I want the truth.’

‘Wanting and getting are not the same thing. What if the truth is something you do not like?’

‘It doesn’t matter; I would still want to know.’

‘You are a bright man John, I am sure you have been through all the possibilities in your own mind. What would you do if I did tell you I was in a sexual relationship with my brother? I could tell you I was assaulting him, I could even tell you we were in the midst of a fight. Would it make you feel better if I lied and gave you a perfectly rational explanation about an experiment we were conducting?’

‘Yes!’ John yelled then changed his mind. It would have been nice to hear a simple, possibly far-fetched but slightly plausible explanation for what he saw. Given the Holmes brothers and their...eccentricities as Mycroft put it; anything was possible.

A small part of him would have been happy to be lied to, to go back to not worrying about Sherlock more than the usual everyday worry he got on cases, but he was here for the truth, no matter how unpleasant.  
He watched as Mycroft clearly considered all possibilities, the man licked his lips and John could clearly see the internal cogs of his great mind ticking over.

Mycroft nodded to himself slowly, before speaking,

‘My brother doesn’t have friends, John. Frankly I am surprise the pair of you have survived in the same flat for so long. He is brilliant but there is a destructive streak in him, a demon that needs to be guarded carefully lest it lead him to ruin.’

He listened in silence, Mycroft almost seemed defeated. A man resigned to his own fate which looked suspiciously like death written across his features.

‘In the short time the pair of you have been companions he has gotten you into such trouble,’ he smirked, a brief snort of amusement through his nose, ‘but you have always been there John, to get him out. You are either going to be the making of each other or you are going to get yourselves killed. Jailed would probably be the best I could hope for.’

The older Holmes threw his hands up in the air resignedly, eventually resting his chin in the palm of his hand, ‘Ask me.’

John licked his lips. Mycroft was actually going to tell him the truth. Again, just like in Baker Street at Sherlock’s bedroom door, he hesitated. Sometimes the truth hurt. Sometime the truth was horrible. Sometime the truth tore a hole in your gut and threatened to collapse your entire world. 

Mycroft looked like that. Like his world had just crashed around about him. John hadn't expected to feel guilty.

‘Were you having sex with Sherlock?’

‘No.’

‘What were you doing with Sherlock?’

His face was a blank mask, deadly serious, eyes boring in John’s so hard that he didn’t want to even blink.

‘I was drinking his blood.’


	4. Count Dracula, I presume?

John paused. He did hear him right, didn’t he? His tone was frivolous, ‘You-ha, right, you were drinking his blood?’

Mycroft nodded once, the barest movement of his head.

He couldn’t help the small laugh that erupted from his throat. It wasn’t funny, not at all, this was absurd. Anger was slowly seeping back in, ‘Do you do this on purpose?’

Mycroft looked puzzled; he raised one perfectly manicured eyebrow.

‘Do you and your brother enjoy torturing me? What is with you and your games?!’

Standing he paced angrily to the door; thinking about opening it and slamming it behind him as he left. Turning, John pointed and accusing finger at the Government official across the room.

‘Since I have met up with your brother I have been abducted, shot at, punched, arrested- he, he poisoned me for God’s sake to see what kind of reaction I would have!’

Sitting perfectly still and blank in his office chair, Mycroft waited until John was finished, he seemed a little surprised by the outburst, fingers steepled in front of him, watching John from under his eyebrows.

Breathing heavily and aware he was beginning to rant, John stormed back towards the desk and threw himself down into his chair.

‘Okay. Okay then, I’ll play along. You were drinking his blood. Care to tell me why?’

A small quirk of a smile played across the other man’s features, but his amusement didn't quite meet his eyes.

‘Because I have to.’

‘You have to? No, you don’t have to-fuck! I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation!’ 

Exasperatedly, John put his head in his hands, willing his brain to work properly.

‘You really were drinking his blood, straight from his body? You were biting him? On the neck?’

A small nod.

‘Next you will be telling me you are some sort of-‘

He watched the expression of grimace play across Mycroft’s usually, unreadable, features.

‘No. You have got to be kidding! You can’t really be a- they don’t exist!’

‘You are a smart man Dr Watson. Put two and to together. I have spent years-yes, years, drinking my brother’s blood, because without it I wouldn’t be here.’

He took a deep, incredulous breath. This was absurd. John had the feeling that he was being played with, but to what end he didn’t know.

‘You are a vampire. Of course you are, I mean, why wouldn’t you be. It’s a perfectly rational, completely NUTS explanation!’

Mycroft’s voice had never changed. His mood remained entirely serious throughout the entire conversation. If he was pulling his leg then this was an elaborate, perfectly executed prank. Funny thing was, John didn’t think the Holmes brother’s had it in them to prank.

‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

Sighed wearily, John said, ‘Don’t quote your brother to me Mycroft.’

‘Actually Sherlock stole that from me.’ Mycroft gave a small smile; again, the humour didn’t quite seem to reach his tired looking eyes.

‘So you are a vampire? You don’t look much like a creature of the night.’ 

He couldn’t help but grin. The well-manicured, uptight, suited Mycroft didn’t look much like a vampire. He looked more like a banker or a politician. John supposed he was a politician, in some form. He fought back a mental image of Mycroft hanging by his feet from the ceiling in a cabinet meeting feeding on the Prime Minister; he bit his lip and suppressed a giggle.

‘Oh you were expecting me to rise from a coffin in the corner, twirl a long black cape, turn into a bat and fly through the window?’ Mycroft’s tone was mocking this time. ‘You have been watching too many horror films Doctor.’

‘Because Vampire’s aren’t real! They only exist in movies! God damn it Mycroft!’

He was back on his feet, losing his temper again. John had a splitting headache from the arguing back and forth and the wild swing of emotions plaguing him since he came into this office.

‘Ok then, you say that you are a vampire. Prove it! Go on. Do a trick.’

‘A trick? What kind of trick? I am not a performing Monkey, Doctor.’

‘What, you can’t turn yourself into a bat or something.’

Mycroft sighed, glancing down to the papers on his desk, ‘You are not taking this seriously.’

‘Oh no, no I’m taking this very seriously.’ His attitude and grin betrayed him. John still thought Mycroft was playing a joke on him; Sherlock was no doubt behind it.

‘So you can’t turn into a bat?’

‘No.’

‘How are you with garlic?’

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft was fast becoming tired of this, ‘No adverse effects. That’s if I could eat food. Which I can’t.’

‘You can’t eat anything? At all.’

‘I can drink blood, but no, no solid food. I can sip water, or tea. Other liquids if I am forced to. Have you ever seen me eat or drink Doctor?’

John paused. Come to think on it, no. Now that was peculiar. Sure he had been in Mycroft’s company when he had food on the table in front of him. John had personally poured him a cup of Tea but had he actually seen him drink it? 

He shrugged it off. Nah, just a weird coincidence. ‘Are you invisible in mirrors?’

Mycroft’s tone indicated that this was becoming tedious, ‘No. I do have a reflection.’

‘Not much of a vampire then, are you?’

He could see Mycroft gritting his teeth in an effort of not losing his temper; he clearly had a shorter fuse than his brother. Sherlock usually pointedly ignored John’s mocking.

A look passed across the older Holmes face, something dark that John couldn’t quite read. He watched his lip curl, clearly Mycroft had thought of something.

‘You are a Doctor, John. I am a vampire. I am dead. I have no pulse. Surely that would be irrefutable proof?’

John eyed him warily, Mycroft was becoming pissed. Every word clipped and bitten out from gritted teeth. He wasn’t taking the mocking well. John supposed Sherlock didn’t take to kindly to it either, there was usually a backlash. He had enough of being at the brunt of his flatmates nastiness, he didn’t need Mycroft picking apart his failings either. 

Fine then. He had asked for proof. There is no way Mycroft didn’t have a pulse, it wasn’t possible. 

Standing, he walked around the desk just as Mycroft also rose from his chair. John had to look up, the man towered over him but he was used to Sherlock’s intimidating height, so stood his ground. Mycroft took a few steps forward until his knees were nearly brushing against his, the Doctor still grinning like this was a game that was about to be put to an end and he was going to be the victor. 

Sighing, the Government official indicated to check his pulse. He watched, highly amused, at the subtle flicker of recognition behind John’s eyes as he raised his hand and placed to fingers against his neck, just below the collar of his shirt.

This is crazy, John thought to himself. He couldn’t believe he was standing in a government building about to take the pulse of a man claiming to be dead, claiming to be a vampire.

Laughing he placed two fingers against Mycroft’s pulse point in his neck. His smirk died. Hang on. There was nothing there. Thinking he was mistaken, John wiggled his fingers into a better position and pressed a little harder.

Giving up, he snatched Mycroft’s hand, forcibly yanked his jacket and shirt sleeve up and tried the wrist.

Nothing. 

Shit.

No way. No way, no way, no way at all could this be real. Mycroft just stood there smirking at him. Finally John placed his entire palm against the older man’s chest, over where his hear should be beating.  
There was something wrong. Mycroft certainly felt cool to the touch, but no pulse! That wasn’t possible, unless…

John didn’t know quite what was amiss. The chest under him did not feel…normal. The closest thing he could describe was the feeling you get when you touch a statue. Similar to a person, same shape, same size, but it didn’t feel real, not quite human.

His mind reeled at the possibilities. Trying once again he grabbed Mycroft’s whole hand, looking for a pulse at the wrist. He was a doctor. There wasn’t any possibility that he was doing this wrong or was mistaken.  
John has seen war; he had been on battlefields, treated hundreds or men, thousands. He had been forced to evaluate which colleagues, which soldiers, which people to leave behind and who to save. He had touched dead bodies. Men and women who had recently died, their skin still clammy to touch their bodies warm and blood still seeping out but they were indeed dead. It wasn’t just the lack of heartbeat that told him that it was something more. Something was missing. Call it a soul or spirit or spark of life or whatever you wished. You could tell between a dead body and a live one that was sleeping or unconscious and the hand under his felt exactly like that, a dead body.

Fuck.

‘Convinced?’ Mycroft’s voice was like ice. It held an edge of danger and threat that John had never heard before. He was suddenly uneasy and more than a little scared. His mouth opened, he wanted to shout out, to say something but found himself paralysed with fear and rooted to the spot.

Quick as lightening, the older Holmes reached out, grabbing him by the front of his jacket, one handed; Mycroft pulled him upwards and off his feet until they were eye level.

John, inexplicably found himself dangling a few feet from the ground, eye to eye with a man that had no heartbeat, no pulse and was now lifting him off the ground one handed without breaking so much as a sweat.  
Only inches from Mycroft’s face, he watched, fascinatedly, as the pupils of Mycroft’s crystal blue eyes dilated dramatically until he was staring at black pools surrounded by ice blue fire.

The man before him snarled, ‘What do you think, Doctor. Proof enough?’

Then he saw it, as Mycroft opened his mouth, John could see clearly; two sharp fangs, enlarged incisors with razor sharp points. 

God! He really was a-a thing. A vampire! There was suddenly no air in his lungs. John couldn’t even form a coherent thought to scream or cry out.

Mycroft’s pale face blurred then everything went black.


	5. Of Vampires and Werewolves and Myths and Legends

He surfaced from darkness to consciousness alarmingly quickly. John jerked awake, his entire body convulsing, opening his eyes and expecting to be confronted by a horrifying bloodsucking creature.

‘Mycroft no!’  
His outburst was met with silence and a bemused expression from the woman sitting opposite. She deigned to glance up from her mobile phone briefly, eyes raking over Johns shocked features before shrugging noncommittally and going back to her mobile.

Glancing around, John found himself in the back of a rather plush car with Anthea was sitting opposite him. He had been in this car before, the day Mycroft practically abducted him from the street.

What happened to him? And what happened to Mycroft?

Rubbing his hands over his face, John pressed the heel of his palms into his eye sockets until everything was black and his vision burst with coloured stars. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He thought it was a joke but what he felt…what he saw! That was no joke. 

He remembered Mycroft, the feel of him, the paleness, cold skin, fangs…shit!

He must have passed out. Embarrassment flooded him but on consideration he could live with fainting. After all, you didn’t get to learn of the existence of a mythical creature every day. 

It wasn’t a dream, was it? Doubt began to creep back into his mind. The Holmes brothers could be teasing him for poking his nose into their business. Sherlock had been exasperated by his questioning. This didn’t seem quite their style though. Plus how could you fake no pulse?

He cleared his throat and thought he would fish for a little information from Mycroft’s secretary. Surely he couldn’t keep such a secret from her? She practically ran his life.

‘Um, Anthea?’

She didn’t response, but continued tapping on the keys of her mobile. John continued doggedly,

‘Er, where are we going?’

‘Baker Street.’ Anthea’s perpetually uninterested attitude didn’t invite further conversation. She didn’t even look up at him. John fought the urge to grab her by her shoulders and shake her.

‘Why?’

‘Don’t you live there?’ Bored. Her tone was nothing but bored.

‘Yes but what happened to me?’

‘Mr Holmes said you became unwell and passed out on the floor in his office. He had you placed in the car and asked if I could make sure you got back to Baker Street safely. If you were not conscious by the time we got there then I would have requested Sherlock to come down and carry you.’

Wow. That was the most conversation he had ever gotten out of Mycroft’s P.A. Still she tapped away at her phone, lapsing back into silence and paying him no further attention.

‘And Mycroft seemed…ok to you? Nothing, um, out of the ordinary?’

Anthea rolled her eyes up, studying John over the top of her mobile. She searched him for a few moments before resuming what she was doing.

‘No.’

He didn’t think he was going to get much else from her and he didn’t really want the come right out and ask if she knew that her employer was a blood sucking fiend. If Anthea didn’t know he could find himself escorted to a hospital, psychiatric ward, very quickly. Even if she did know, how would she or Mycroft take it if John began shouting it from the rooftops?

They both lapsed into silence. 

He was still hoping against hope that he passed out and dreamt the entire episode. John could attest personally, how disturbingly real dreams could be. His time as a soldier still haunted him and he swore on more than one occasion, after dreaming of gun fire and bombings that he could smell smoke and feel the heat of the Afghan sun as he lay in his Baker Street bed.

 

 

They pulled up outside his flat and John stumbled out the back of the car. It was dark outside and a slight chill in the air. It had later afternoon and daylight when he went into Mycroft’s office. Oh dear, he must have been unconscious for quite some time. He didn’t know quite what to make of that. How long had he been unconscious and in Mycroft’s…care?

The effects of fainting clearly had not worn off as he nearly fell face first into the pavement, shocked mind desperately trying to make everyday motor functions work.

John self-consciously looked around to check if anyone saw him, Anthea made a small ‘tutting’ sound before closing the car door. The sleek black Jag pulled away from the kerb and he was left looking up at the building wondering if Sherlock was home and anxiously hoping that he wasn’t.

 

 

Somehow he managed to drag himself upstairs. Opening the door to the sitting room he saw Sherlock, sitting in front of the T.V, yelling that it was obvious who the murderer was. He snorted in amusement despite himself; he really shouldn’t let him watch murder mysteries. John could no longer watch Midsomer Murders without Sherlock spoiling the ending.

Holmes Jnr glanced up as John stumbled to the couch and sank into it, brow furrowing, ‘Are you alright?’

Now he knew he must have looked like crap. Sherlock never checked on how he was doing. John rubbed his aching head with the tips of his fingers.

‘Sort of.’

‘Did something happen when you were out with Stamford?’

Time for the truth. Now or never. 

‘I-I didn’t go out with Stamford. I went to see your brother.’

Sherlock was suddenly on his feet, crossing the small space between the chair and couch in record time.

‘What did he do to you?!’

John blanched at the vehemence in his tone, he jerked away as Sherlock’s nose came within a few inches of him, cool grey eyes searching intently and fingers running down his arms.

‘He didn’t do anything to me. I think. I-I passed out…I think.’

‘You think? You must be sure. Take your clothes off.’

‘My clothes off? No!’

Sherlock stood still with hands on his hips; his tone did not indicate it was a request. For the first time John was the one that could read his friend like a book and not the other way around. Sherlock looked upset, angry and a little worried.

‘Listen, I’m not talking my clothes off.’

‘I want to check you for injuries. You may have hurt yourself when you fell.’

John’s blood boiled. It was his bloody fault he went there. His bloody fault he had to find out about…about Mycroft’s condition and pass out on his floor. If Sherlock hadn’t been so stubborn and just talked to him. 

‘No you don’t, you want to check me for fucking bite marks!’ He practically spat in Sherlock’s face.

Whatever his friend was about to say it died on his lips. His mouth closed abruptly and he swallowed, eyes dropping, not wanting to look him.

‘Yeah, the thing is Sherlock; we had a little chat about that, on what’s been happening the last few weeks.’

John was angry. More than that he was upset, frustrated and more than a little scared, if this was all real and not some horrible dream. The look on Sherlock’s face indicated he was not dreaming, he looked far too guilty.

Sighing heavily, John wished he could crawl into bed and sleep for 12 hours solid, wake up tomorrow and find everything back to normal as if nothing had happened.

‘Please tell me you are playing some sort of joke on me or an experiment, you know, like the Baskerville Hound? Something to see how I react or submit to fear or paranoia, or anything, anything at all. Tell me now or I swear I am going to-argh! I don’t know, but god help me Sherlock you are going to be sorry.’

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled, he looked puzzled, ‘Joke?’

This was unfortunately no joke. Mycroft Holmes was a vampire and his brother Sherlock helped hide him and let him drink his blood. Right at this moment John would have accepted the sex over this. This was…life changing. What else had been hidden from him?

‘Why didn’t you tell me? After all the time I have known you?’

His friend was evasive, eyes shifting around the Baker Street sitting room. His voice was a little unsure, he mumbled, ‘It wasn’t my secret to tell.’

‘I’m not just talking about Mycroft, Sherlock! I know he is your brother and I may not always be privy to family matters but he is a walking, talking myth! He shouldn’t exist! You, a man of logic and deduction are fully able to accept what he is?’

Wearily Sherlock slid back into his armchair, voice tired, ‘He is my brother. I don’t know who to trust. I had no way for knowing how you would react. If it went badly, this could be all over the news.’

‘I would have liked to have thought you thought better of me than that.’ 

Truth was, John was a little hurt that his supposed friend did not confide in him. He kept many things secret relating to Sherlock and Sherlock did the same for him. He never did tell Lestrade it was John who shot the Study in Pink killer, all to save his friends life.

‘You are not one as well…’ he trailed off; surely even he would have spotted something. Sure Sherlock was an oddity but hopefully very much alive one. 

Sherlock’s cool penetrating gaze fixed on him and he shook his head. He was quite, too quiet and idly fidgeting with the fraying edge of the chairs armrest cover.

John had to know, ‘Why do you do it?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes, jaw working, he clearly didn’t want to discuss but damn it John was curious! Shaking his head, Sherlock was pointed examining expertly manicured fingernails. John had questions. This was completely new. Less than two hours ago he had proof in the existence of vampires. What the fuck was he going to do now?

‘I- Mycroft can’t survive without blood, I let him have mine lest he is let loose on the general public.’

Shit, John never thought on that, ‘Is he dangerous?!’

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. ‘Not when he is fed.’

God, thought John, it sounded so cold, so callow, as if they weren’t having a conversation about drinking human blood and the possibility that Mycroft could attack unsuspecting people.

‘So what else am I missing?’

‘Missing?’ Sherlock sounded perplexed.

‘Mycroft is a vampire an actual honest-to-god, blood sucking dead guy. Got an aunt somewhere that is a werewolf? Do we have fairies living at the bottom of our garden?’

‘You are being silly.’

‘Am I? Am I really Sherlock? Because a few months ago you were not willing to accept the existence of a monstrous demon, hell hound!’

Pursing his lips, Sherlock considered. The Doctor could see practically see his great mind ticking over.

‘Mycroft is the only vampire I have ever met. There are others, many, from what he has told me. But something’s even my know it all brother doesn’t grasp. He does not have much better knowledge of the supernatural than you or I. It is only logical to assume that if vampires exist then other…creatures may also, but neither of us have ever came in contact with such, be it werewolf or fairy or…monstrous demon hell hound.’ 

He gave a small quirk of lips; john wasn’t in the mood to be amused. Sherlock’s face fell and he cleared his throat.

‘As for everything else, until I have irrefutable proof of their existence-like Mycroft-then I will work on the rational basis that they do not.’

 

After an awkward silence, John decided he had to leave, this was too much to handle, ‘I’m going to bed.’

He just reached the door when Sherlock called out. John turned; his friend sitting huddled in his armchair, arms wrapped around his legs. God he looked so young, John thought, so young and unsure. He was thirty five years old, only four years younger than himself. I some ways Sherlock was older, in knowledge and mind that he would ever be, but in other so incredibly naïve.

‘John?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What are you going to do with the information? You can’t let this get out. People would panic, social systems would break down, people could be attacked or killed, Mycroft could…’

He cut him off wearily, it was a problem for tomorrow, ‘I don’t know, good night, Sherlock.’


	6. Just How Does The Undead Thing Work Anyway?

He couldn’t face Sherlock the next morning. Having spent another restless night tossing and turning in bed, he left Baker Street just as the sun was coming up.

John wandered Hyde Park for hours, stopping only briefly to grab a bacon sandwich and cup of tea in a nearby café. He had no idea what he was going to do about the situation with Mycroft.

Disappointment gnawed at his gut, how could Sherlock keep something of this magnitude from him? And as for letting Mycroft drink his blood…that was just creepy.

John did not know what to do for the best. Who would believe him if he told anybody? No doubt people would think he had gone insane. He also wondered if he could live in the same house, knowing he could wake up in the middle of the night and Mycroft might be taking a bite out him.

He sighed. He was being unfair. In the years he had known Sherlock nothing bad had happened to him. Well, plenty bad had happened, it just wasn’t anything to do with the older Holmes and his condition. He didn’t actually think Mycroft would now suddenly start nibbling on his neck just because he happened to know.

 

 

Trudging back to Baker Street, John decided he couldn’t avoid Sherlock forever but wondered if the oddly strained tension between them now would ever dissipate.

Stepping into the sitting room he was surprised to find Mycroft sitting in a high backed chair, immaculately dressed and twirling his umbrella through his fingers. He glanced up as John entered.

‘Ah Doctor Watson, how are we feeling today?’

He stopped just inside the door way then chided himself for feeling suddenly uneasy in Mycroft’s company. Nothing had changed. Well apart from him being dead of course but he had not been afraid of Mycroft when he practically abducted him off the street and bundled him into a deserted warehouse wanting him to spy on Sherlock. There was no reason to start now.

Crossing the room, he sat gingerly on the chair opposite; fully aware his hands were twitching for his old army pistol. John suddenly wondered if the pistol could even stop a vampire.

Mycroft must have noticed his itchy fingers, glancing downward where they were splayed on his knees, his eyes came back up to his face, a small smirk played across his features.

‘I must say, I expected a man of your background to take the shock a little better than passing out on my floor.’ Mycroft’s voice was a mocking drawl; John had the inexplicable urge to punch him.

‘Yes well, usually the corpses I see don’t talk back.’

Mycroft’s smirk vanished, his face hard and unamused.

‘Where is Sherlock?’

‘Why, hungry?’

Mycroft made a scathing noise low in his throat, leaning forward his voice was low, dangerous hiss, ‘I do have concerns other than blood, Doctor.’

Swallowing, John took a deep breath forcing himself to relax. Mycroft was no more dangerous to him today than last week, he hoped anyway. They were bating one another. He noticed the small gleam in the older Holmes eye. Mycroft was playing with him! That bastard was enjoying intimidating him. 

He nearly laughed at the realisation Mycroft was over playing the theatrical big scary vampire when the truth was, he was a mild mannered, soft spoken civil servant who happened to have no pulse. It was funny really.

John suddenly had a multitude of questions. Here was a real life, um, should that be undead? vampire. This was fascinating. The things he could learn. All thought of Sherlock or fear of his brother vanished under the excitement the occasion.

‘How did you come here?’

‘I did say I came to see Sherlock.’

‘No, I mean. It’s daylight. I thought vampires burned in the sun.’

Mycroft gave him a bemused look, John had the feeling the older Holmes was looking at him as if he were five year old and a precocious child.

‘Met many vampires that burned in the sun, Doctor?

‘You know what I mean. All the movies say they can’t be out in daylight. I have seen you outside plenty. So vampires are real and not stories but surely some of the myths have some sort of facts? Other people must have come into contact with them and learned something?’

Mycroft shrugged, noncommittally, pinching the bridge of his nose in a despairing manner. He curtly replied, ‘No I do not combust into flames in sunlight.’

John was slightly disappointed. He thought he would get to play twenty questions now that the news was out in the open. Mycroft saw his disheartened expression and relented, letting out a small sigh.

‘However. Daylight has an effect on my eyesight; it is poor out of doors during the day. It is painful to be outside for any length of time and direct sunshine is not beneficial.’

He rolled the collar of his shirt down enough for John to see a large red patch of skin in stark contrast to the pearly white surround.

‘I do burn exceptionally easily in the sun; my skin comes out in a rash if I spend any minimal length of time outdoors.’

‘Tried factor 50?’ 

Mycroft merely sneered at Johns attempt at humour and rearranged his clothing.

‘If I put a stake in you, would you die? Um, die again, I suppose you could say.’

‘Why? Are you looking for ways to kill me?’ 

There was a hint of something in his voice, John realised his questions may be a little insensitive. Did Mycroft truly believe he would want to kill him, just because he may be afraid of what he was?

‘Just curious. Again, films say to kill vampires with crosses, holy water and a stake in the heart.’

‘Crosses and holy water do not work. I do not cower at crucifixes, holy water merely gets me wet, I can walk into churches and have no problems reciting scripture. The stake in the heart…well, I suppose that may work but having never been on the receiving end I cannot confirm.’

The odd normalcy of talking about the ins and outs of vampire life completely threw him off. John had been watching too many movies. He had expected a snarling, flesh tearing animal to start throwing furniture around and flying bat-like out the window. Mycroft talked as if it were some sort of diseased, a condition and had taken up the explanation in a sort of bored lecturer kind of way.

‘Decapitation and fire are the best ways to finish off vampires from information I have learned.’

‘Right. Well, if it ever comes to it, Mycroft, I will go for the head then.’

John tried to make light of it but Mycroft looked so unhappy and uncomfortable. He supposed the older Holmes didn’t have to discuss this kind of thing every day. 

He wondered how it happened. Just how did one become a vampire? Mycroft was dead. Technically John had died too; the doctors told him his heart had stopped beating for fifty seconds before they could revive him. Fifty seconds and he felt nothing. No white light, no angels, no voice of God.

It had taken a long time for him to get over that. The horrible realisation he nearly died, thousands of miles from home with no friends or family. Imagine waking up and being this thing…this creature, surviving only by drinking the life blood of other people. 

He suddenly felt inexplicable sympathy him. John had come back relatively whole; Mycroft technically didn’t come back at all. Who was to say the man sitting opposite was anything like the man before the vampire.  
John had a disturbing thought. Is that what was wrong with Sherlock? Was he so cold and clinical because his brother is like that, his only brother who died and was replaced by a vampire? He once called Sherlock a machine, was this Mycroft’s doing?

Mycroft’s voice brought him out of his contemplation. ‘I have been waiting an hour in the hope my brother would return, please tell him I called round and ask him to answer his phone next time. I must leave.’

With that, Mycroft rose gracefully form he chair. John watched him move, it was almost a dancer’s fluid movement, and he seemed quite boneless. Was this just Mycroft? Maybe it was family genes as Sherlock could be pretty gracefully when he wanted to be. However, given that he had experience of Mycroft lifting him easily off the floor, he began to wonder what other perks might come with being a vampire.

Heading for the door swinging his umbrella, John called after the older Holmes,

‘Do you have to do it, drink Sherlock’s blood I mean?’

Mycroft half turned back to him, still sitting on the chair. He seemed almost sad.

‘He offered. And I-I have no one else. Our parents are dead, we have no other siblings or what you consider close family.’

‘Have you tried not drinking blood?’

The older Holmes eyes darkened, his face set, ‘I did once and the consequences were…disastrous.’

‘How about other blood? You are a powerful man Mycroft, could you not get people to bring it to you, donor blood. I am sure you are not above getting a few pints to go missing from hospitals and such…’

‘It doesn’t work John. Donor blood is not suitable. It has to be living blood, it has to be fresh, it has to be-‘ he grimaced as if disgusted with himself, ‘warm.’

John blanched. He had asked, it was his own fault. He wanted to know, he thought needed to know.

Mycroft turned back and was almost out the door. Curiosity got the better of him,

‘Mycroft?’

‘Yes?’ His tone was exasperatedly clipped.

‘How did it happen? How did you become a vampire?’

He smiled, trying and failing to make light of the topic, ‘It is a thrilling tale John, I am afraid I don’t have the time to do it justice. Perhaps another time.’


	7. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson

He was still sitting in the Baker Street sitting room when Sherlock walked in later in the evening. Lowering his paper, John casually mentioned Mycroft had been visiting.

The younger Holmes abruptly stopped what he was doing and narrowed his eyes. ‘What did he want?’

‘I don’t know, he didn’t say. I think he was worried about you, he said you weren’t answering your phone.’

‘I was working.’ Sherlock’s tone was evasive so John let it drop.

‘Did my brother want anything else?’

‘No, just you as far as I am aware.’

With that John got up from the chair, neatly folding the paper and throwing it on the pile on the floor.

‘Right, I’m going to the shops, what do you want for dinner?’

‘Dinner?’

‘Yes dinner. There is nothing in the fridge except fingers-no-I don’t even want to know what they are for, so what do you want?’

Sherlock pursed his lips, long fingers drumming on the armrest.

‘You are just going to make us dinner? Everything is…fine.’ His voice indicated he had a hard time believing it and expected John to explode with questions or arguments at any point.

Sighing, John sat back down, perching himself on the edge of the seat.

‘Ok so Mycroft is a vampire. I’m not happy you didn’t tell me Sherlock, friends are supposed to trust each other-‘

‘I do trust you and you are my-‘

He was pointedly looking at the wall and not at him. John’s lip quirked slightly, Sherlock was so horrible at expressing any kind of emotion or sentiment, it was highly amusing but utterly touching to him when he did.

Sherlock swallowed, ‘my friend. My only friend really. It’s just...people are idiots. While the existence of vampires is unlikely, some will refuse to believe while those that do may consider drastic action for extermination or study. We can’t even form coherent policy on immigration in this country, I doubt the news that a whole other species exist with the sole aim of feeding on human being as if they were happy meals would go down well.’

His friend gave him a sideways look, ‘You are not going to tell anyone?’

John slowly shook his head. No he wouldn’t tell. Sherlock was his friend and Mycroft was his only brother, it wasn’t his place and who would believe him anyway?

The younger Holmes gave a small, brief smile, a genuine one that made him look years younger.

‘He won’t hurt you, you know. The only thing to fear of Mycroft is his interference.’

John snorted laughter but his tone turned serious, ‘He hurts you though.’

‘It doesn’t hurt, not really. Only the initial bite then-‘

‘Then?’

Shifting in his seat, Sherlock wasn’t telling him something. He hesitated a few heartbeats as if considering his words then continued,

‘-then something takes over. Some sort of…numbing effect. I think it must be the bite. Anaesthetic of some sort that stops you trying to get away.’

Well this was news John thought. He had imagined getting your neck bitten by sharp fangs would hurt considerably. He wondered how much extra, and possibly useful, information he could get out of Sherlock in a talkative mood. John thought he would try and push his luck.

‘Can I ask; how long has Mycroft been like this?’

‘Around twenty years.’

Twenty years! Now that was a surprise John wasn’t expecting. He mulled it over in his mind. That was horrible. Sherlock had been feeding him for twenty years? That means he would have been a kid when…oh god!

‘Hang on. Twenty years? How come he looks so old?’

Sherlock frowned, a slight scrunch of his nose. ‘Old?’

Yeah, I mean, twenty years ago you would have been a kid-‘

‘I was fifteen!’

‘-sorry, ok, fifteen. Mycroft should have been not much older than you surely?’

‘I was fifteen, Mycroft was thirty five. He died at thirty five and hasn’t changed since then. He should be in his fifties by now.’

Personally John would have put Mycroft’s current age in his forties. Maybe he was being uncharitable or maybe Mycroft had had a hard life by the time he died at thirty five.

‘That’s a bit of an age gap between you and your brother, I always believed he was only a few years older than you.’

'We tell people that when we need an explanation. No one would believe Mycroft is supposed to be fifty five. He looks too good, then what would happen when he is supposed to be even older?' 

'I never thought of that,' John said, Sherlock's explanation was entirely reasonable.

'The younger we can make Mycroft now, the longer normal people can know him without being suspicious. It may yet get to the point where I could possibly have to say that he is the younger brother. Of course some people in Government know what he is, my brother used to be quite active in diplomatic circles, however now he is much more on the back burner, more consulting than anything else. It would arouse too much suspicion as to why he is not getting any older.'

'Hang on,' He said shocked, 'You are telling me the British Government knows about the existence of vampires?! What the hell are they doing about it?'

His friend only gave him a look that said plainly he was naíve, 'They do nothing of course. Well I say nothing but Mycroft tells me that they have ways and means of monitoring them. For the most part it seems vampires stay hidden and we let them, providing they don't get out of hand and start killing people.'

'Killing people! How often does that happen?' John's tone was incredulous but the man before him merely shrugged.

So many questions ran through his mind. He wondered how something this huge could be concealed, the knowledge of the supposedly mythical vampires kept secret and the Government more than happy to do so. It was appalling really.

Catching Sherlock's sideways glance at him, John realised he had becoming angry again and he did promise himself to try and be more accepting. None of this, technically, was Sherlock's fault. He moved back to the topic of the Holmes family while his friend was still in a talkative mood.

'Still, as I was saying, that is a big age gap between you and Mycroft. Do you have any other siblings I am not aware of? A sister who is a practising Witch or anything?' 

He tried to make light of it but Sherlock sank further into the chair. He realised they were delving into personal family life, something he knew the Holmes brothers avoided at all costs.

Sherlock’s tone was clinical, disconnected, but underneath John detected something in his voice, sadness.

‘No. no other family. I was always told there were other children between myself and Mycroft-miscarriages. Our mother died in childbirth with me. My father didn’t really want much to do with me from that point on. I suppose I got the blame. Mycroft practically raised me. Our father died when I was eight-‘ 

Sherlock paused mid sentence for a few heartbeats causing John to search his face. His father died and something about it his friend didn’t want to mention. He was about to become upset again at the idea Sherlock was still keeping secrets. I mean, how bad could it be considering he now knew Mycroft was the walking dead?

'-from a massive heart attack. Mycroft had his Governmental work and money, he sent me to the best boarding schools in England.’

Something in his voice told John the discussion was over, ‘Jesus, Sherlock, I’m so sorry, I had no idea, I-‘

His friend raised a hand to silence him, ‘History, John. Old history that no longer matters.’

‘But-‘

‘Drop it.’

John shut up. He had no idea Sherlock’s life had been so painful. No wonder he didn’t reach out much. In his mind, Sherlock’s father obviously blamed him for the mother’s death, even though it was in no way his fault. Raised by a brother so much older than him, God, he even lost Mycroft! Technically Sherlock’s whole family was dead; Mycroft was only here as a result of…whatever happened when you became a vampire.

John made a decision. It was going to be hard but he could live with it. He would just try and force the knowledge of Mycroft out of his head. Carry on as normal and hope the pair of them could get back into some sort of routine. Sherlock was still his friend and Baker Street would still be his home.

‘So how does a boy of fifteen accept and agree to give their blood to a vampire?’

‘He is my brother, John. He either drinks blood or he does not survive. He took care of me as a child-I owe him and I do not enjoy owing anyone.’

‘You don’t owe him anything,’ John exclaimed exasperatedly, ‘He is your brother and your parents were dead. He would have taken care of you no matter what.’

Sherlock merely shrugged, ‘I am compensated for the blood loss.’

His stomach flipped, compensated? That didn’t sound good.

‘Compensated, how exactly?’

His friend indicated their surroundings, ‘Occasionally my work will bring in a fair amount of money, but not always. I take my cases based on the level of interest rather than profitability. The majority of my money comes from Mycroft. I could work for free on the money he provides and he also sends interesting cases my way. His position in Government gives him access to all manner of interesting data.’

John felt a little sick. That sounded suspiciously like some sort of prostitution. He was effectively selling part of his body to his brother who in turn kept him in a comfortable lifestyle. What happened if Sherlock decided he didn’t want to give Mycroft blood anymore? Would he suddenly find himself with no job, no home and no money? He would like to think Mycroft wouldn’t do that to him, but given recent events he clearly didn’t know either of them as well as he thought he did.

Life had just thrown a number of problems his way. He thought he could try and get over this easily. He had a sneaking suspicion more issues were about to arise. Oh well, a problem for another day.  
Standing he held his hand down to Sherlock, ‘Come on, we will go out for dinner. Your cooking is terrible.’

Sherlock smiled, just a small wrinkling around his eyes before standing and grabbing his coat and scarf. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson would not be leaving Baker Street any time soon.


	8. Holmes, Mycroft Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down.
> 
> Part 2: The making of the Vampire
> 
>  
> 
> Rome, Italy 1991

Rome, Italy 1991

 

Stepping out into the brightly lit Fiumicino airport, Mycroft noticed a tall, smartly dressed figure standing near the baggage carousel. The individual was holding a plaque with M. Holmes stamped in bold, neat black letters. 

Picking up his bag he headed towards the figure, the sweltering Italian heat already assaulting his senses. Squirming in the heavy tweed suit he was glad that he had the sense to pack lighter clothing for the trip. He would definitely need to change into that later.

‘Ah, Mr Holmes, Welcome!’ The jovial stranger promptly took the bag from his hand before Mycroft could protest. He introduced himself as Giulo Latorre, assigned to the department of the Minister for Foreign affairs, in perfect English but with a strong Italian accent. 

‘Please Mr Holmes, this way. We have a car waiting.’

Mycroft followed his collector from the airport, a sleek black car waited for them at the front door. He and Giulo eased into the back of the car as the driver held the door then secured his bags in the boot before setting off alarmingly aggressively into busy Rome traffic.

Far too busy to deal with minor politics, Mycroft had been sent with full authority on the British Prime Ministers behalf to negotiate on everything from immigration, economic trade, anti-terrorist policy, the declining communist Russia and even what the Italian Minster was sending the Queen for her birthday. All somewhat tedious, but necessary.

Thankfully the vehicle was well air conditioned and Mycroft allowed himself to relax slightly and enjoy the cool breeze. Truth be told he hated flying. Statistically it was perfectly safe, more so than travelling in the back of a speeding Government car, but fear, he knew, was irrational.

‘Mr Holmes, we have a full schedule planned out for you. We arrive at the hotel, you will be checked in, the Foreign Minister will invite you for dinner with him, his wife and possibly other cabinet members and then you will go to the opera this evening as their guest.’

Mycroft listened intently as Giulo chatted on excitedly. Mycroft observed his fairly young age, his over eager manner, easy speech, disregard for etiquette-the driver should have collected Mycroft and his bag, not the assistant personally- the sharp and expensive brand new suit. He was clearly new to this job and eager. His skin was fairly dark from being out in the constant Italian sunshine and his hands calloused. Politician was not his original job. He was either someone’s pet project or, given how some of the political manoeuvres worked, someone important relative.

‘Tomorrow you will enter talks; we felt you may want tomorrow night free. Activities can be arranged or you may explore our wonderful city for yourself. Fresh meetings in the morning on the third day, lunch with the British ambassador to Italy, dinner with the Italian secretary for home economics, then; theatre. You depart, hopefully with all business concluded on Thursday morning.’

He quirked his lips at the man’s thoroughness and gave him a small nod of agreement. He would be lucky if he got a moment to breathe but no doubt could rearrange things to suit himself if need be. He was after all, the guest. 

Mycroft gave a small nod, ‘Che andré bene.’

‘Parli Italiano?’

‘Si, un po.’

The diplomat switched back to English, ‘A little? Mr Holmes you jest. You have virtually no accent! Ah, I will need to inform my colleges, no mocking the English visitor this time; he will know what you are saying!’

He laughed good heartedly and Mycroft smiled with him. The man was easy to like, his very nature exuded cheer. He could tell dear Giulo had neither malice nor shrewdness; the poor man was going to make an awful politician unless someone helped.

‘My English needs work so I will converse in your language but it may make things easier in negotiation. The Prime Ministers English is limited. He had asked for a translator.’

‘There will be no need, the less people who know about the conversations and their content the better.’

‘Of course Sir.’ Giulo eyed the umbrella resting at Mycroft’s side and laughed, ‘You will not need that here Sir, sun forecast for the next week.’

Mycroft fingered the handle, a small comforting gesture but a nervous tick he never managed to shake, ‘Always best to be prepared.’

 

 

After a short drive the car the pulled up to the sumptuous Westin Excelsior Hotel where he was quickly and effortlessly escorted to his suite. He was to be given time to unpack and settle, perhaps freshen up before dinner with none other than the head of the Italian Government.

He allowed himself the luxury of a quick cold shower to cool off and changed his attire to something classic but of lighter fabric and more suited to the temperature outside.

Almost ready, Mycroft picked up the phone and dialled reception asking to get a connection to a UK number. He let the phone ring a good three minutes before anyone on the other end picked up. The surprisingly deep voice on the other end answered with a curt and bored, ‘Yes?’

‘Sherlock? It is Mycroft.’

‘I knew it would be, no one else is that persistent.’

Mycroft ignored his brothers rudeness, he had been a stubborn and evasive child and at 15, adolescence had not softened him any.

‘I thought you may wish to know that your only brother had arrived safe and well in Rome. I will be here for four days. Your school may reach me through my office if it is urgent.’

‘I won’t be needing you.’

‘Just in case. How is school?’

There was huffy sigh from the other end of the phone, ‘God, are we sharing idle chit chat now Mycroft? It’s fine.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘Well everything seems, what’s the word…fine, then.’ Sarcasm dripped from every syllable.

‘You are not funny, Mycroft, everything is fine…apart from the fact they are all imbecilic. The chemistry professor resolutely refused to believe the answer in the text book was wrong, even after I proved it.’

‘Yes well, people make mistakes. It is human nature.’

‘There was an altercation.’

Mycroft fought back an expletive and counted to ten. He was positive he never gave their parents this much trouble as a youth. He fought to keep his tone neutral. Yelling at Sherlock never got you anywhere.

‘Please tell me you are not expelled from yet another school?’

‘No.’ Sherlock’s response was sullen and too quick.

‘Sherlock!?’ One word infused with warning, he knew when he was being lied to.

His brother sounded moody but his voice suppressing guilt and an underlying sense of unfairness; as if the world was out to get him. At least he was a typical teenager in that sense.

‘Honestly, they have not expelled me. But-‘

‘I’m listening.’ He tried not to sound as tired as he felt.

‘They do want to see you at some point.’

‘Fine.’ There was that word again, this time from his own lips, my, he thought, both of them were going to have to come up with better adjectives. 

Mycroft sighed wearily. Sherlock was becoming a difficult boy to teach, he was on his third boarding school. Mycroft’s work did not allow him to be there constantly for his brother and with no parents or family, he was better off there than left alone when work took him out of the country. 

Sherlock was bright, superhumanly so, much like Mycroft himself but unlike him, Sherlock had a problem submitting to any sort of authority even Mycroft’s. He just did not know when to toe the line.

‘I will deal with it when I come home. We may as well wait until after the half term. You have a few weeks holiday coming up. You may-if you wish- stay at the school or you can come here and stay with me in London.’

‘Really?’ His brother’s voice betrayed his scepticism. No doubt Sherlock was wondering what the catch was.

‘Yes. Really. You may enjoy some time in London, a change of scenery so to speak. I haven’t seen you for six months Sherlock; I want to see how you are doing rather than short five minute phone calls where I need to drag the information from you.’

Sherlock’s retort was scathing, ‘Family sentiment? Really Mycroft it doesn’t become you.’

‘Yes well, I am still hoping to make something of you.’

A loud snort on the other end of the line, ‘I am not becoming a civil servant, or a politician.’

‘You have a great mind Sherlock; you can do whatever you wish to do. Are you coming to London?’

‘Yes.’ He tried for nonchalance and failed, Mycroft could hear the barely suppressed excitement in his voice at the prospect of it. Not that he fooled himself that Sherlock was desperate to pay a visit to his nosey, overbearing brother-his words-more that he would enjoy the sights, sounds and possibilities of London central.

‘Settled then, I will contact you when I am back in the country and arrange for you to travel down, I can send a car for you-‘

He was cut of abruptly, ‘I can get a train by myself. I am more than capable and I am not five years old Mycroft.’

Sighing, he relented; Sherlock was fully able, ‘Yes, well, ok then, you can take the train yourself.’

The end of the conversation was always the worst. Always the most awkward. Sentiment and feeling were never greatly expressed in the Holmes household. Occasionally Mycroft felt an urge to express a deeper connection with his only brother, his only family. 

Would it be so wrong to end a call with the occasional ‘I love you’ or ‘I miss you?’ The biggest emotional expression he ever got from his brother was slightly lispy ‘Thank you Mycroft, I love you, you are the best brother,’ as a highly excited Sherlock opened the chemistry set complete with Bunsen burner he got him for his seventh birthday. A present that was kept secret from their stern father, until of course Sherlock nearly burned the house down with one of his experiments. Mycroft had learned the hard way that he was not too old for a clip round the ear.

Mawkishness and caring was not an advantage, Mycroft knew that. He would like to think that perhaps some form of emotional attachment was hardwired into people regarding family but he knew that wasn’t the case. How then, did you explain their Father and Mother?

He settled for, ‘Take care, Sherlock’ and received a muffled, ‘Bye,’ as his brother was already placing the receiver back into the cradle.

Sherlock was a problem for another day, he had work to do. He changed for dinner and prepared to face negotiation with the Italian government.


	9. When In Rome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down.
> 
> Rome, Italy 1991

It wasn’t even the end of the second day and already Mycroft longed for the comfort and silence of the Diogenes Club.

Socialising was exhausting and not something he was overly fond of especially when he had to be polite, attentive and engage in a certain amount of fawning over ‘the right people.’

This is why he never volunteered or flatly refused the more…strenuous assignments. He hadn’t been given much of a choice in this one though; he did own the PM a favour. Now he knew why the man didn’t want to come. The Italian Minister made him look like a liberal, easy going, Albert Einstein. Mycroft found himself suddenly wanting to know more Italian swear words than he currently did.

 

 

Arriving back in his hotel room for early afternoon, he flopped, rather ungraciously, on the large king size four poster bed, and loosened his tie.

It was too warm and far too sunny in this bloody country he thought. Despite the stereotypical Englishness of complaining about Britain’s weather he actually found that he missed the rain and grey skies. It was home.

He sighed, thinking happily that in only two days he could go home.

A sharp knock came at the hotel bedroom door disturbing his rest. Closing his eyes, he hoped they would go away if he simply ignored it. After a few moments there was another knock and the recognisable voice of Giulo called his name through the door.

Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet and went to answer. The Italian Minister was smiling brightly as he answered and holding out the newspaper that Mycroft resolutely left at the door.  
‘I have come to take you for a drink friend; you look as if you need it.’

He would have preferred to be left alone but Giulo seemed so enthusiastic. While his company was uneventful and intelligence bordering on simple he was a nice man and seemed determined to follow Mycroft around making sure he was well cared for. 

Perhaps he could have dinner with him and one drink before excusing himself for peace and quiet, maybe an early night. He agreed to meet his new found friend in the hotel lobby in one hour once he had cleaned himself up.

 

 

They stayed within the hotel, one of the most exclusive in Rome; the food and drink was fabulous and Mycroft waived off any notion Giulo had of paying for dinner. All expenses were charged to his tab which was picked up by Her Majesty’s Government. They may as well make good of it. A few steaks and brandies would not blow the national budget.

After dinner both men lounged near the bar in comfortable leather chairs with a large glass of brandy. Full and relatively happy, it was almost like being back at home except much busier, the traffic of people and noise through the lobby was beginning to irritate Mycroft just a little. 

The silence of the Diogenes club was so relaxing. He contemplated if there was such a similar place here, but on questioning Giulo it seemed not. Either that or the Italian simply wasn’t the right kind of person to be interested in a place like that, he was much more a talkative, classic social club type of man.

He entertained Giulo by telling him about the other guests as they passed by. He was duly impressed by Mycroft’s powers of deduction but refused to believe his claims of fellow guests and their habits. He told him who was having an affair, their occupations, how many children they had and whatnot. Giulo claimed he was a lucky guesser or had some sort of sixth sense or that not all Mycroft’s statements could possibly be true and he had no way of proving. The British Minister merely smiled and spread his hands telling him it was easy if you took time to observe and infer from the facts.

However, he had noticed for the last half hour or so of conversation that Giulo’s attention was wavering. His eyes darted across Mycroft’s left shoulder on a number of occasions, his gaze drawn by something beside the bar.

Curious, but with a good idea of what the other man was looking at, Mycroft turned in his chair to glance behind him and immediately spotted the distraction; a very pretty woman sitting alone at the bar, drink in hand. He turned back to his friend. 

The Italian diplomat obviously noticed Mycroft turning to inspect what he was looking at and blushed slightly, making a show of focusing his attention back on the man in front of him. He smiled shyly and the older Holmes laughed.

‘I was beginning to think my conversation was dull.’

‘No, not at all Mr Holmes-‘

‘Mycroft.’

‘-Mycroft, then. I was a little-‘

‘Distracted?’ He said with a teasing note in his voice.

Giulo laughed again, ‘Yes well, the lady has looked over this direction several times. Perhaps she likes me, or maybe it’s you.’ He nodded in Mycroft’s direction and wiggled his eyebrows.

He smiled, ‘Oh I doubt it is me Giulo. And I would be careful if I were you, I doubt she has an interest in you so much as your wallet.’

Looking confused, he frowned slightly as Mycroft continued,

‘If you want a night with her Giulo you better be prepared to pay for it.’

He still looked perplexed, ‘Why pay?’

‘Puttana,’ he offered.

The Italian Ministers face betrayed shock. ‘Really, how can you tell? I don’t believe such a pretty girl is a, what’s the English word, prostitutia?’

Mycroft sipped his brandy and steepled his fingers together.

‘Oh don’t get me wrong, she is unlikely your common street whore. She is beautiful, elegant, no doubt the high end of the market. She is wearing a few thousand pounds worth of clothing and jewellery, all the latest fashions yet her make-up is just a little too heavy, her skirt a little too short. Her clothing is minimally provocative. I observed her when we came in; she had been sitting there at the bar alone for over an hour. If she were meeting someone they would have arrived by now if she was stood up, she would have left. More likely she is waiting for her next…client.’

Giulo laughed and waved in an offhand gesture, clearly not believing it was enough for Mycroft to come to his conclusions. He sighed at the Italian’s scepticism and continued.

‘Furthermore, she is not a guest of this hotel. Observe, she is paying for her drinks-they are not being placed on the tab. Our woman has come from outside to an exclusive and expensive hotel looking for another client willing to pay a lot of money and you, my friend have been ordering the most expensive Brandy at the bar for the last half hour. We have no doubt consumed a few hundred pounds of alcohol.’

‘Surely, that is all speculation. She may be lonely and wants a nice atmosphere for a few drinks.’

Mycroft rubbed his fore finger along his lips, a small quirk of a smile playing on them.

‘Alright, I may have cheated. The last time I went to the bar she slipped this into my hand.’

He produced a small, elegant, cream coloured business card from his palm and slid it across the table. It showed quite clearly the pretty lady offering professional services.

Giulo examined the card and laughed. ‘You shouldn’t have shown me this Mycroft. A conjurer gets no credit one he had explained his trick.’

He only chuckled and held a toast to him, ‘I will remember that.’

His friend was hesitant, unsure of his next words as if testing the water and trying not to offend, ‘Well, as they say, when in Rome. If you would like such…entertainment for the evening Sir, then it can be discretely arranged to your room.’

‘Ah, no thank you Giulo.’ Mycroft appreciated that the Italian was trying to make sure he had an enjoyable stay but the thought of paying for sex did not appeal much to him.  
Giulo gave him a look, he seemed cautious but continued, ‘Or, um if she was not to your taste, an equally pretty boy could be found.’

Mycroft nearly choked on his glass of Brandy at the insinuation, Giulo had mistaken his reserve for employing a woman, he did not want any services, male or female, ‘Honestly Giulo, No. I need no such entertainment while I am here.’ 

He did notice the Italian Ministers continued glances at the lady at the bar. Clearly someone wasn’t daunted by the profession. Rolling his eyes, he summoned his attention, ‘However, I am more than happy to entertain myself the rest of the evening if you wish to indulge.’

Giulo shook his head vehemently protesting, that they should stay and have more drinks, but his lust filled gaze gave him away.

‘I was planning a small walk around your lovely City. Really, I am more than happy to say goodnight at the moment. You can pursue whatever other interests you may have this evening.’  
The Italian put up a token struggle of declining but eventually agreed to part ways.

‘Please, Mycroft, at least let me get you some security if you are out walking alone.’

He smiled, ‘Trust me, I will be fine. If I can walk the streets of London and be perfectly safe I am sure the same goes for Rome. ‘

He picked up his trusted umbrella (just in case) and headed out the hotel into the humid air, smirking inwardly as he spotted Giulo approaching the bar and the very attractive lady with dark hair, sensuous red lips and revealing black dress out the corner of his eye.


	10. There Is No Such Thing As Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2:The Making of the Vampire cont.
> 
> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down.
> 
>  
> 
> Rome, Italy, 1991

Outside night had fallen and the air was humid yet Rome was still bustling with people. Traffic rushed past as he stood outside the hotel establishing his bearings, the night sky and surroundings ablaze with decorative lights and luminations.

Heading out into the traffic of people, Mycroft was planning a short walk, just what he needed to relax; some time to himself and the silence of his own head to contemplate the best course of action for tomorrow’s talks with the Prime Minister.

He strolled idly, taking his time as he passed the Piazza Di Spagna, continuing onwards before pausing at the beautiful San Giacomo in Augusta church. He contemplated heading inside to admire the architecture but felt once you had seen inside one church you had really seen them all.

Taking the Regina Marhgerita Bridge across the Tiber, Mycroft aimed to head towards the Vatican City. Admittedly he had never seen it up close or been inside and felt he should at least have a look. The architecture, political system and cultural study appealed to him most, not being a religious man, rather than the pilgrimage aspect.

He had actually met Pope Jean Paul II on his pastoral trip to Britain in 1982 and confessed himself slightly disappointed. He found him to be rather a dull and insipid person rather than a shining figurehead of religious inspiration. 

He really couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, but, he supposed, he had also seen the Queen disturbed during a national crisis and in her night dress. She too wasn’t as an impressive figure when she was yelling at the Corgis to stop chewing the furniture. Perception and appearance was everything.

 

The streets around him were much quieter as the hour grew later and while the shops and boutiques closed around him, bars and cafes and clubs were beginning to spring into life. He was still several miles from his destination and decided he should take a taxi back to the hotel once he was finished. All this walking was far too energetic.

He had just passed an opening in a street when Mycroft swore he heard a cry. It sounded distinctly like a woman. Pausing he glanced sideways and spotted silhouettes further down a small branching alleyway that was filled with debris and rubbish. 

Four figures seemed to be bunched together, but it was dark and the area unlit, he could not clearly make out the people. Obviously someone was in distress as a clear second cry floated towards him.

Now this was far too clichéd, Mycroft thought. Thugs attacking innocent passers-by in a dark alleyway. He had seen this movie before, as they say, and he certainly wasn’t about to play there hero.

Glancing down the main street he could see a few people milling around but no sign of any authorities. Typical, just like London, never a policeman when you needed one and they are always around when you don’t. 

It wasn’t his concern, caring was not an advantage as he always told his brother. Mycroft braced himself to walk on but decided against it. Something niggled into the back of his mind, guilt probably. A stupid sense of gentlemanly proprietary took over and before he knew it he turned and walked towards the commotion.

His eyes began to adjust to the dim light as he approached ever closer. He did nothing to hide his arrival; shoe heels clicking loudly on the cobbled street prevented any attempt at a stealthy approach anyway. Perhaps the appearance of another figure may alarm or startle them into running off. Muggers were always quick to flee against a strong opponent; they tended to target the weak or helpless and Mycroft Holmes was neither.

Two figures were holding a much smaller between them and third loomed menacingly in front. Mycroft observed each was fairly average; average height, average build, average weight. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary and nothing he could not handle. He notice the smaller figure, clearly the target of the assault, was not a woman but an adolescent boy, pale lanky and anorexically thin with a mop of curly black hair flopping into his eyes.

Well now or never. He was just a few feet now from the group when he politely told the attackers to cease the harassment of their victim and leave the area immediately. 

Each figure seemed to turn uncomprehendingly towards him. He tried in Italian in case the language was the barrier but he suspected it was more likely the shock of someone bothering to interfere. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the continuing life of passers-by in the main street, uncaring and oblivious to crime happening under their nose.

The main attacker grinned evilly, row of surprisingly straight white teeth shone in the dark as he turned towards the Government official, obviously half surprise, half amused at Mycroft’s forwardness.

The individual was a good head smaller than himself but more powerfully built, thicker around the chest, arms and middle. Dark ragged hair and scruffy matted beard obscured most of his face but his eyes seemed to shine like dark liquid lamps, even in this limited light. Looking over his clothing, Mycroft noticed they were clean but not in fashion, about fifty years out of fashion.

Before Mycroft knew it the man flew at him with alarming speed, but he was ready. Although he preferred an inactive and sedentary life style, years of being bullied as the fat child in school and also because he was abnormally clever had taught a self-preserving discipline in him. Several years of self-defence classes along with the classics of fencing and sparing in boarding school had instilled decent level of self-defence. This was unlikely be a challenge, he just wished he didn’t have to.

Bracing on his back foot he dodged the clumsy lunge of the grinning attacker, a hard swing with his umbrella and a loud crunching as the hard wooden handle connected with the side of the man’s head and knocked him sideways into the wall.

The attacker slid down the brick wall to the ground in a daze, hands up protecting his head from a second swing aimed while he was down. Wood connected with skull a second time, filling the alley with a hearty thwack and a cry of pain.

Mycroft grinned. The game was on. 

A second assailant let go of the boy in favour of the new danger. Mycroft easily dodged the first wild swing of his fist then the second. His own counter connected, first to the ribs as he turned his body into the blow, his second collided with the attackers jaw, putting his weight behind it and sending the assailant backwards into a pile of rubbish.

He spun, expecting an attack from the third but he wisely stayed out the way, perhaps the shock and unexpectedness of his rather rough looking comrades being beaten by a thin, thinning haired, English man in a suit. The third man didn’t move and retained a grip tight on the boy that seemed to be the focus of their assault.

A noise behind him and Mycroft turned just in time to brace himself as the original grinning attacker slammed hard into him, knocking his breath away and pushing him against the alley wall. His shoulder went numb at the impact as he protected his head and fought to stay on his feet.

It was startling the ragged haired man was able to move after that impact with his umbrella, Mycroft hadn’t expected him to be able to get up, surely he must have some sort of concussion? The man actually snarled in his face like some sort of wild animal, putrid breath filling his nostrils. A firm hand came up to grab Mycroft’s throat as he was pinned again the wall.

Fighting for breath he had to get out the cool iron grip around his neck or he was going to choke. His attacker squeezed and he was convinced bones would break. It was superhuman strength from a man his size.  
Bringing his arms and elbows up sharply and sweeping the man’s hands away from him, Mycroft aimed a vicious head-butt in the ruffian’s direction. Pain lanced through his own forehead at the contact but he ignored it, satisfied he had broken the others nose with a loud crunch and a spray of blood.

Clearly the second man was not completely down or out either as before he could fully recover, Mycroft received a heavy blow to the ribs. He stumbled, just managing not to fall to the ground. It was a substantial blow and knocked the wind straight out his lungs; by the feeling, it may even have broken a rib. Falling now would be bad, he knew. Once down it was incredibly hard to get back up and he would be in too vulnerable a position and the three attackers would be able to him some damage.

He dipped quickly, grabbing his discarded umbrella. Instead of swinging as a weapon this time he gripped the ornate carved handle, twisted and pulled. Out slid a long, almost pencil thin blade form the body. Yes it was illegal; no Mycroft would never see the inside of a jail cell. It helped to be indispensable to the British Government; it had a tendency to make pesky illegality’s go away. Both for him and Sherlock.

The attacker blanched only slightly as Mycroft flourished the blade, believing they would not be stupid enough to take him on. He had not seen any weapon at their disposal. 

He was wrong. After a brief pause the man kept coming.

There was no choice for it. They may be unarmed but their intention to hurt was clear and Mycroft was not going to suffer a beating. He did the only thing he could do and lunged forward.

The blade hit resistance as it bit into flesh. The attackers momentum and Mycroft’s weight behind it pushed it impossibly deep in the man’s chest. 

He and the second man stood staring at one another, both shocked and puzzled. Mycroft pulled back, releasing his grip on the handle which now quivered in the middle of the man’s chest. He could see the dark seep of blood flowing around the edge where it had pierced; soaking his attacker’s shirt and jacket but still the man didn’t move or make a sound. 

The attacker stood, staring down at the weapon as if surprised how it got there. He laughed. A high pitched, piercing sound that sent shivers down the Government official’s spine. Unexpectedly he grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled. Mycroft could hear the wet suck as the blade was withdrawn from bone and flesh until it was finally free of the man’s chest, only a small grimace betrayed his features as it was finally removed. He had stopped bleeding.

Mycroft stumbled back in disbelief. That wasn’t possible. It would have had to hurt incredibly. He should be on the floor in agony, possibly bleeding to death. 

His own limbs now slightly numb from exertion, fear and astonishment; he nearly tripped over the first attacker who seemed completely recovered, still grinning manically, if a little bloodier. He was shoved painfully against the wall, the back of his head colliding sharply with the stone, his vision swam. A second strike, probably with a fist, but it felt more like he was hit with a sledgehammer, also connected with the back of his head and he suddenly felt himself free falling.

Vision already blurred, ears ringing; Mycroft was already nearly unconscious as he headed towards the cobbled street floor. No thought process or bodily function in place to raise his hands to save himself, he fell in a heap to the ground, temple colliding painfully with stone and everything went dark.


	11. Dinner Is Served

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2:The Making of the Vampire cont.
> 
> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down.
> 
>  
> 
> Rome, Italy, 1991

Cold. He felt incredibly cold. His dream addled brain surmised he must have kicked the bed covers off in the middle of the night and instinctually he made to pull the blanket back up over himself. Movement was met with resistance. Slowly his mind swam from the blackness. He wasn’t sleeping and he wasn’t in his bed. 

Something was very wrong.

A faint pounding in his head increased as he struggled to open his eyes and the pain grew significantly as his he surfaced into consciousness. Finally able to open his eyes, Mycroft could see the dark night sky above, stars twinkling down on him. He realised why he was cold. Gazing down the length of his body he had no clothes on, well, nothing except his boxers and a pair of socks. He now knew why he couldn’t move. His arms were tied painfully behind his back, shoulders bend at a strained angle, his ankles too, were bound.

Performing a mental check on his body Mycroft soon found that everything hurt; the twinge of strained muscles, forming bruises and the sting of open cuts. His head was the worst certainly, but he felt small aches and pains all over, places he didn’t expect.

Flashes of his attackers in the alleyway filled his mind as he recollected what had happened; the boy, three looming figures, the scuffle, the blade-just how did he survive that anyway?-the beating he received. Mycroft quickly surmised he must have been knocked unconscious and brought to here. Wherever here was.

Just able to raise his head up enough to glance down, he saw small marks all across his torso, a combination of forming bruises, scraped skin and smeared blood stains across his body. He groaned inwardly, even that seemed to hurt. Squirming, cold earth and twigs dug into his bare back and crunched with every movement. He hypothesized that he was lying outside, perhaps in a park or woodland, probably still within Rome. He could just make the outline of a canopy of trees framing the night sky that he was looking up on.

Moving his head caused all manner of pains to shoot through his bound body but he managed to turn in the direction of voices and laughter. 

Perhaps a hundred feet away he could make out the light from lamps and crackling fires. There were a few tents, ragged uneven wooden chairs scattered around the clearing, makeshift shelters. It seemed people were living here. Many differing individuals were gathered together, chatting excitedly, laughing in a horrible screeching rancorous way. His captors apparently. Delightful.

Struggling against his bonds briefly, Mycroft soon gave up. It was no good. He was securely tied and the ropes chaffed his skin. Struggling would only tire him further and continue the painful bite of thick rope into his flesh. No sooner did he come to that conclusion did the urge to close his eyes overcome him.

It would be bad, he concluded, to sleep now, no matter how much he wanted to. Numerous things could kill him, especially if his head wound was as serious as he suspected; concussion, exposure, blood loss were all serious possibilities at this point.

Lying in the dark he cursed himself for being stupid enough to get involved, but he supposed over confidence was a particular Holmes family trait, his father never suspected his treatment of Mycroft and Sherlock would come back to haunt him-

God! Thought Mycroft. Thinking about his father. Sentimentality. Raking over the past. Is that what happens when you are faced with your own death, he wondered? He sincerely hoped there would be no white light as mentioned in various films and literature. He had no desire to see his own life flash before his eyes. Once was more than enough.

He paused in his reverie, something out the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he wasn’t quite sure what. It was dark and his eyes were heavy and tired. Turning his head slightly to the left he saw a large black silhouette in the dark, an odd figure, hunched over on all fours.

Mycroft’s breath hitched, heart pounding faster in his chest, threating in to explode. Taking a deep breath he tried to calm himself. Fear was nothing but an emotion, one that could be controlled and suppressed. 

Terror or panic would not help him. Still, something about being alone in the dark, or not alone as the case may be, a primal wariness instilled in human beings for hundreds of thousands of years to be wary of the night. Survival instinct was a human’s biggest driving factor and right now some ancient learned warning in the pit of his stomach told him that fear in this moment was entirely justified.

It slithered closer. Mycroft blanched. Although the moon and fire light was limited, it did lightly bounce of the approaching figure, clearly a person but who seemed to bonelessly crawl along the leaves and dirt. There was no awkward clumsiness of a human, no jerk of movement, no oddness of crawling on hands and feet. This thing practically glided.

A pale female face hovered above his own. She appeared human enough except he found himself gazing up into deep, bottomless black eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. She regarded him curiously, her own eyes raking over his semi-naked body. There was a look on her face that had nothing to do with sex but it was hungry. 

Mycroft swallowed violently. Summoning as much authority and courage as he could muster, he was proud that there wasn’t even a quaver in his voice as he said,

‘Who are you and what do you want with me?’

Silence. The woman continued to look at him. Difficult to tell from her crouched position at his side but Mycroft would guess she was small, around 5 foot, long dark brown-possibly black in this light-hair, dark eyes. Her light coloured skin shone in the moon light, her expression was on of detached vagueness, layers of clothing haphazardly arranged and thrown together. Mycroft got the impression she wasn’t quite all there, in the mind. He memorised her face in case he managed to get out of here and describe it to the authorities later.

‘My name is Mycroft Holmes. You will find I am in this country under a full diplomatic visa. If you do not release me this instant there will be severe consequences.’

Still nothing. The woman looked blankly at him. He tried in Italian, just in case there was a possible language barrier. 

That got her attention.

She paused, a quick glance up at his face again as if surprised at what he said or perhaps that he could speak her language so well. She regarded him coolly, Mycroft noted, disinterestedly, as if she were studying some sort of lab specimen. It was the look he often seen on Sherlock’s features when he was considering an experiment and the results.

Sherlock?! Now there was something he forgot about. Here he was, far from home with the distinct possibility he may not get out of this night alive. What would happen to his brother? He would be truly alone. 

Sherlock was a brilliant and resourceful child but he was still so young. He would need care until he was old enough to go his own way in the world, he would need money for the rest of his schooling, his university, somewhere to live, and Mycroft wondered if his insurances and government pension would be enough to sustain him.

Sherlock was his responsibility, his only immediate family. He didn’t like the thought of him being placed in an awful children’s home or with foster parents. Who would understand him? Thanks, likely to their upbringing, they were both emotionally restrained; Sherlock could be damned rude at times and actively shunned all semblance of authority. He was a law unto himself. How long before ‘normal’ people became sick of his attitude? How many families would he be passed around, labelled as the problem child? 

Mycroft suddenly worried that Sherlock wouldn’t fit in, he wouldn’t be wanted. He should have stayed at home; he should have taken a less responsible job. He should have focused on his brother than his career and now he might not get the chance to rectify that error.

His attention was focused back on his current predicament as the figure loomed over him, long hair trailing coarse scratchy paths across his naked skin.

He licked his dry lips, cracked from lack of moisture. He had no idea how long he may have lain here. The sky was very dark, a pitch black broken only by pin points of twinkling white starlight, he was only assuming it was still the same evening he confronted the attackers in the alleyway. 

The figure made a small snarling noise, leaning over his restrained body her head dipped to his chest. Rising up a little, Mycroft caught a glimpse of white: a flash of pale, luminescent teeth in the dark. They looked suspiciously sharp, almost like fangs…

His breath hitched as pain lanced through him. The bitch had bit him, on his chest, just under his left pectoral muscle! He grunted and twitched as he felt teeth skin into flesh, he felt the skin stretch to breaking point then pierce under a firm jaw, but could do nothing; he was securely pinned down.

Then he heard it. Small sucking noises. Was she actually drinking his blood? This was absurd, and highly unsanitary! Pain was sharp through his chest as the woman worried at the skin like a dog, razor like teeth digging in, tugging his flesh all the more. 

Abruptly something else came over him, other feelings entirely. Mycroft realised it didn’t hurt anymore. The initial pain of the bite gave way to something else, something more blissful. His eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion overcoming him and he fought to stay awake. 

Would it be so bad to sleep, a small voice in the back of his head told him?

Most likely. He knew this feeling, something akin to drug use. He felt far too sated and complacent. What was happening to him seemed to be happening to someone else entirely as his body floated in a strange mixture of relaxation and pleasure. Listless and detached, he wondered what the woman or her accomplices had given him. Surely they must have given him something that was currently affecting his body and mind?

As the woman continued drinking, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, the world swirled in a haze of night sky, fire light and chattering voices and darkness pulled him in.


	12. The Kiss of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: The Making of the Vampire  
> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down.
> 
> Rome, Italy, 1991

Somehow, miraculously, Mycroft found himself conscious once more. He really hadn’t expected to wake up at all given everything that had happened to him so far. 

Head foggy and mind swimming in a haze of injury and unusual sensations, he quickly realised he wasn’t alone. Two silhouetted figures leaned over him; both men and both had their mouths securely pinned on his body.

Now he was conscious he could feel it. Feel them. Every bite, every suck, every lick across his skin like a caress down his body. Each individual hair was standing to attention as wet sucking noises filled the air. It seemed so loud now; he did know why it hadn’t roused him before. 

He jerked abruptly as a shiver ran down his spine and both skitter away from him like animals, eyeing him reproachfully for having the audacity to interrupt their feeding.

Mycroft couldn’t quite believe it. Thinking he was becoming involved in a routine fight, some sort of mugging perhaps, he now found himself prisoner; bound and surrounded by hideous, barely human people who seemed intent of drinking his blood. He assumed they were some sort of cult, perhaps those vampire imitators who dressed in dark clothing and white make up, wore fake fangs and drank pig’s blood. 

Evidently this group had stepped up to human prey, capture and live human prey at that.

Opening his mouth, he tried to speak but couldn’t quite form the words. This throat was dry and his jaw ached. If his motor functions were not so diminished, then he wanted to ask them what they wanted, who they were and if they would let him go? 

Clearing his throat, his voice sounded hollow in his ears, lost in the vast expanse of woodland. Still he couldn’t quite form the coherent thoughts to raise his objections again. He was having trouble focusing, his vision swam, thoughts scattered to the wind.

 

 

Mycroft wasn’t sure how many times he may have passed out, several, by his current calculation. Each time he awoke did not fill him with comfort. He could only surmise he was not unconscious for long and that it was still the same night he disappeared but he had no way to be sure. He could have been here for days for all he knew, it certainly felt like it.

Fingers and toes were becoming numb; every bone and muscle was now in excruciating agony from lying in a tied, cold, uncomfortable position. He kept finding fresh injuries and aches all over his body and each time he regained consciousness there was usually someone with him, biting him.

This was becoming worrisome. These things, these people, were drinking his blood. How long before he succumbed to the injuries? To the blood loss? The pain in his head significantly increased each time he closed his eyes and reopened them. To Mycroft, it only seemed like minutes but he knew there was no telling just how long he spent passed out and what else his captors may be doing to his unconscious form.

 

 

Light and noise drifted towards him. The happy exuberance of his captors seemed so far away, when really they were mere feet away from him. Still a small, aware part of the back of his mind longed to be lying in the warm glow of the nearby campfire and not the firm, chilly, dark soil. Now that he thought on it, he supposed he should feel cold but at this point he had stopped shivering, which was a bad sign.

Each breath was becoming laboured, the rise and fall of his chest sharp and painful, it was as if something were sitting heavily on his chest hindering his breathing. In an effort to keep his mind active and to try and ward off falling into unconsciousness again, Mycroft attempted to keep himself stimulated. He first tried reciting the Latin alphabet but after only a few letters he realised his mind was wandering and he could not remember where he managed to get to. He tried, instead, listing the various minsters, undersecretaries and aids with their various offices within Government, something he should be able to do in his sleep but he suddenly found himself wondering the name of the Prime Minister.

Dark shadows crossed his eye line. Realising he had been staring off into the night sky while something had approached him, silently, almost as if appearing from nowhere, he tried to focus his attention more.   
Mycroft recognised the man from earlier. He recognised his profile even in the dim firelight; just had he had from the moonlight in the alley, same dark ragged hair and beard, same predatory gleam in his eye and the utterly evil grin. To Mycroft, he seemed to be some kind of leader, the other thugs in the alley deferred to him and his judgement. He was also the one who attacked first.

Having dealt two heavy blows to the man’s head with his umbrella, he should have serious injuries. But now, standing over him, feet planted either side of Mycroft’s waist, that appeared not to be the case.  
He would have to try and reason with this ruffian. This was absurd; he could not hold someone of Mycroft’s stature prisoner and subject them to torture. Once he was discovered missing it was very likely the security service would be sent to find him. The Government official didn’t kid himself the search would be for him as a British citizen; no doubt if he was on ordinary missing tourist hardly anyone would bat an eyelid, however wrong that may be. His skills, rather than the man were too valuable to lose.

The man bent downward, resting on his heels, legs either side of Mycroft’s torso. Holmes met his cool gaze unflinchingly even when a knife appeared in his hand. Mycroft studied it; it was a fairly average, medium sized blade, one smooth one jagged and serrated edge with a worn dark wooden handle, it would appear things were about to take a more unfortunate turn.

His captor flipped it through his fingers with ease as he watched. He was an amateur, a show off. If he was trying to scare him then it wouldn’t work, Mycroft had faced worse, hell he had even committed worse to prisoners in his care. Rarely now did he have to get his hands quite so dirty for Queen and country, no there were other younger, newer recruits for that, but he had done his share as a younger man.

Cold steel rested against his cheek and he could feel the smooth side of the blade trailing lightly back and forth across his exposed skin, never quite enough pressure to break the surface and spill blood. Yet.  
The voice that emerged from the broad barrelled chest was deep and cruel, Mycroft noted he spoke only Italian, ‘Well my guest, are you comfy?’

He followed with a high malicious laugh. Mycroft did not deign to respond. He would not play his games. The brute continued nonetheless.

‘Anything we can get you, pet?’

His tone was mocking; he chuckled to himself, continuing the trail of the knife across Mycroft’s cheek. He tried not to flinch at the contact but his tied arms ached and shoulders numb, every movement dislodged earth and leaves under him and jagged dry twigs dug into his bare back.

‘Release me.’ He eventually hissed through gritted teeth.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘If you had any idea who I was then you should be worried. The punishment will be severe for my injury.’

A predatory grin, ‘I fear no authorities.’

It was Mycroft’s turn to chuckle, ‘Oh it won’t be the Polizia that will be hunting you down. I am not a citizen of this country; it will not be any official agent that will be investigating my disappearance. You will be hunted down and torn apart. If you are lucky they will kill you quickly.’

His captor only smirked malevolently, ‘Well perhaps we should make sure you are never found then. No body, no evidence.’

Mycroft was offhand, provoking him deliberately, perhaps he would make a mistake? ‘You don’t strike me as intelligent enough to manage that.’

He snarled, a hiss of teeth causing spittle to rain down on top of the man underneath him. The knife travelled across his cheek, the sharp tip pressed just underneath his right eye. He could feel it brush his eyelashes.

Keeping perfectly still and careful not to move and inch or even blink, realising that if he blinked he may skewer his own eyelid on the knife point. Mycroft’s eye watered and vision blurred as he fought not to close his eyelid, the tip of the knife partially obscuring his view.

The dark haired man’s face was inches from him, silently grinning as he increased the pressure on the knife. The cool metal pushed against Mycroft’s skin, he daren’t blink for fear of losing an eye and he held his breath.

The blade withdrew and his captor laughed, easing back on his haunches watching with a cruelly playful expression.

‘You are nothing little man. You talk and you threaten and think you are powerful. I am powerful. You couldn’t even kill one of us.’

His gaze flickered to the side where Mycroft saw another one of the men from earlier apparently none the worse for wear from being impaled on the hidden sword in his umbrella.

What on earth were they? He refused to acknowledge the facts in front of him. Superhuman speed and strength, seemingly impervious to injury, the feeding on human blood? No he would not, could not believe. For once logic could not possibly apply here. The most obvious answer was an impossibility.

‘Scared?’ At his voice, Mycroft head snapped back in the direction of the man currently sitting on top of him. He shook his head, gaze cool; he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

The dark haired man smiled widely and Mycroft saw it, sharp fangs seemed to spring from his gums. Well they looked real he thought, so much for imaginative dentistry.

He winced as the knife bit into the skin just above his belly button, a small horizontal line of red opened perhaps five centimetres long. Blood welled up in the wound before finally spilling over and running down his side, disappearing underneath his back.

Grinning triumphantly his captor slide a finger across the wound causing Holmes to shudder. The thick tanned digit came away smeared with blood. He slid it into his mouth and sucked, Mycroft could only watch, horrified.

A second, equally biting slice opened up a gash on his upper arm. Hissing at the slight pain, his muscles underneath the fresh cuts quivered in protest of their own violation. He sincerely hoped they would not kill him by one tiny cut at a time. Better get it over and done with quickly, a slash across the throat or a stab to any major internal organ.

The man was drawing idle patterns with the tip of his finger across Mycroft’s chest. He seemed to be having a good deal of fun amusing himself at the bound man’s expense. Mycroft recognised the pleasure of torture in his eyes, the joy of forcing another to your will for the sheer enjoyment of their suffering. He had seen it before, in his own father nonetheless but he had also worked with such men. Those were the ones that truly enjoyed their job. On one hand they were excellent for the security services, never failing to carry out an unpleasant order, never blanching at the order to kill or torture. They would always get the required confessions. However the downside was that they were unpredictable, unreliable and dangerous. Often such characters went too far, they could not be controlled, you could not guarantee they would not get caught up in the moment and kill without order.

Mycroft realised the danger he was in. He could not talk his way out of this situation, he could not negotiate. There was nothing he could do to alter the mind of this man. He was wild and dangerous and the very epitome of a sadist.

His captors eyes flashed dangerously in the dark, Mycroft could have sworn he could see dark shadows moving across the inky black surface. ‘This is all you are good for, this is all we want from you. Beg and threaten and rattle your chains all you want little man. You will not be released.’

Mycroft cried out as the man’s heavy weight collapsed on top of him knocking the air out his lungs. He smelled of mildew and sweat and burning charcoal. Wiry black ragged hair scratched his chin as a head dipped to his collar. 

Holmes couldn’t help a small cry of pain as sharp teeth sank into the side of his neck at a sensitive spot and tore through flesh. Teeth ripped through his jugular and warm fresh, dark red blood sprayed across his pale skin and captors clothes, rivulets soaking into the dry earth underneath him.


	13. The Lonely Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: The Making of the Vampire  
> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down  
> Rome Italy, 1991

Four. He was four the first time he was roused from unconsciousness in his family home. No doubt this was not the first time he had received a beating from his father, but it was the first vivid memory he had; waking up with his head in agony and a burst lip, staring at the kitchen ceiling as his mother cradled his head in her lap and his father ranted in the background.

His father’s temper was something to tip toe around, for both him and his mother. She was an intelligent woman whilst his father was mediocre to say the least. He was also a violent and sadistic bully.

To this day he had no idea why his mother had put up with him. It wasn’t just Mycroft that faced the brunt of his father’s temper, on occasions his mother could not leave the house for weeks for fear of the neighbours becoming suspicious of the bruising littering her delicate features.

Trips to hospital were rare, even in his youth and despite the damage inflicted. It may have aroused suspicion that Mycroft’s injuries were not as a result of being a boisterous boy. Oh no, his father was carefully never to do serious damage, cuts and bruises were explained easily, multiple broken bones were not. But still, accidents did occasionally happen.

 

 

Nine. He was nine one sunny summer afternoon when he was punished unexpectedly for some minor misdemeanour. He couldn’t recall which; it could be petty things like sitting in on a sunny day preferring to read than run after a football, not coming when called quickly enough, being too noisy, not folding his clothes correctly or even leaving just a room without permission. Each could all earn him a sharp smack across the back of his legs or perhaps a closed fist to the jaw. 

He used to be punished for backchat when he was younger. He would glower in triumph each time he outwitted and outsmarted his father. Again, every time he did not show pain as the hand or belt or cane stung his bare backside was another victory. He was proud of the small little defiance’s against his abhorrent father until it was realised that hitting his son would not silence him. Mycroft learned to keep quite when his actions resulted in a backhand across his mother’s jaw. So watched and waited and learned to keep quite more for her sake than his own.

Bent over his father’s knee, his trousers and underwear pulled down just enough to sit under his cheeks, he received ten hearty whacks with Holmes Senior’s solid leather belt, each thwack biting the skin and raising sharp, hot red welts on his bare backside. He was used to that, it had happened for as long as he could remember, but afterward, after the punishment, his father did something different and horribly unforeseen. His hand slid into his son’s underwear.

His smooth developing genitalia were caressed violently by his father’s rough, calloused hands. He explored the junction between his legs, his backside, the crack of his arse, all while with a cigarette hanging from his lips and his warm intensely panting breath blowing across the back of Mycroft’s exposed neck. The boy could feel the man’s excitement in the quiver of his hands and heavy breathing but also the unpleasant firmness which grew against his stomach. 

Mycroft had thought that by this point, nothing his father could do now would make him cry again. He had been wrong.

 

 

It escalated quickly; by 11 his father’s abuse was total and systematic. Mycroft still received his beatings for bad behaviour but at unexpected intervals he would be called to the study and subjected to anything from fondling or being forced on his knees as his father loosened his trousers and pushed his horrid erection into his face. 

Resistance was met with a beating, if he was particularly good or his father particularly excited it could be over very quickly but more often than not, it wasn’t. Occasionally his father would be in particularly vindictive mood, tying him to the chair or the desk, or blocking his nose and airways, forcing him to choke and cough, while his fist tightened in the hair on the back of his head, preventing escape.

One instance, his father tightened the belt around his neck as he was fellating him to the point Mycroft passed out from lack of oxygen. He awoke on the floor of the study, heading downstairs to find his parents sitting calmly at dinner as if their only son was not almost strangled to death in the room upstairs.

 

 

By 12 he was forcibly held down, suffocating against the pillows of his bed as his father crossed the final barrier and raped him. He could still imagine the smell of him, his hot breath on the back of his neck, hairy, sweating disgusting body covering his and to this day is made him shiver and tightened the pit of his stomach in disgust. 

Mycroft was left in agony, bleeding on the bed. He wasn’t taken to a hospital; the injuries inflicted on him could not be explained away. So he was left for weeks, raw and sore as his mother cared for him. It wasn’t the last time his father would have sex with him.

He despised his father, the man was a monster, a bully, a pathetic excuse for a husband, father or even a man but he truly began to loath his mother. A woman he loved as a child and tried to protect but she knew. She let this to happen to him; she put his father before him. All she had to do was leave him, to tell someone what he did, take her only son to a hospital and show the injuries. Instead they stayed, living in the shadow of his father’s wrath.

 

 

 

Surprisingly the abuse stopped once Mycroft reached puberty; oh he was still knocked about for his insolence, but it would seem his father’s sexual interest would only go as far as pre-adolescent boys. He made him sick.

He left home as soon as he could, preferring to spend holidays staying at the various boarding schools he attended rather than at home. He was still a Holmes and his family had, not an extensive wealth, but a comfortable amount of money. For appearances and nothing else, certainly not the love from his father, Mycroft was sent to the best schools in England. Being way above average intelligence, he was accepted early to Oxford University at 16. How could the family refuse such a placement? The young Holmes left and didn’t look back.

 

 

It was much to his disgust and horror to find his mother pregnant again at his nineteenth birthday. He didn’t think either of them would be so stupid. The previous occurrences were usually dealt with by his father; a push down the stairs, a punch to the gut, or a thrust against a table edge had ended more than one chance of a developing brother or sister for Mycroft before.

Whether it was intentional or not, simply because of the abuse his mother sustained, there were several miscarriages after Mycroft. He was partly relieved at the time, thinking no other child would have the pair of them inflicted upon he or she, but upset at the same time of being an only child. Denied the pleasure of a brother or sister to care for and play with or even, a small dark part at the back of his mind suggested someone else to be picked upon for a change instead of himself.

 

 

His mother died. A healthy baby boy weighting eight pounds four ounces was forcibly delivered. Whatever complications that had risen she could not be saved. She was only forty one years old.

Mycroft didn’t know quite what to feel about that. He had hated her for so long but she was his mother, the woman who gave birth to him, who he inherited his intelligence and his love of books and the piano from. She used to tell him stories before he went to sleep at night and she bandaged up every wound his father gave him. She was still his family and someone who had suffered as much as he had. 

Mycroft attended the funeral like a good and devoted son, smiling for distant relatives and neighbours. He grimaced through the service, watching others fawn over his father, such a shame they would say, such a nice man like him now a widower. That was only to his face, Mycroft knew. He had heard more than one person in the small, rural, very English village in which they lived, gossip about his father’s temper and the unsocial frightened appearance of the mother and son. But as usually it was all hushed behind closed doors. None thought to help or do anything about it. They smiled superficially and drank tea and ate sandwiches and ignored the horror all around them.

He scanned the crowds, knowing that most of them knew what happened, or at least suspected and did nothing. He watched and calculated. He knew all their secrets. They could not hide from his keen gaze or calculatingly deductive mind. He knew who was having affairs, who avoided their taxes, who thieved money from their own business accounts. Perhaps one day, if he was feeling particularly bored or vindictive, he would pay them back.

There was the problem of a baby brother, the child survived whist his mother had died. It was not the child’s fault but now the boy was left with a monster to care for him.

Mycroft was a junior in the Home office. He was a rising star, his knowledge and abilities recognised as indispensable by certain parties, he could not abandon his career. Part of which was a small niggling dig at his father who was mediocre Member of Parliament; a small time back bencher from a small rural constituency who never amounted to much than being your average pen pusher. He frequently told Mycroft that he wouldn’t amount to anything.

It was much more satisfying than any punch to his father’s face when Mycroft told him about the paper he wrote on the Prime Ministers behalf, outlining increased effects to the new national security measures. He doubted his father had ever even shaken the PM’s hand in all his 30 years of service.   
But he could not leave another child in that house, with than man.

He tried. He really did. He tried to have Sherlock removed to his care or at least to keep a watchful eye on the boy, but with no reason, it was useless. Unless he was willing to contact authorities on the kind of man his father was but he soon realised that he had no proof and his mother was no longer here to testify. Trying to keep an eye on the boy was made equally as difficult as his father flatly refused to left him come back to the family home to live. Mycroft was left to watch, visiting as often as he could, cajoling any kind of confessions from the young Sherlock about what was going on. 

Sherlock was a quite child, brilliant, but he knew it from a very young age. His backchat to his father made Mycroft cringe, he had a boldness that the older Holmes boy never had as a child but still a number of bruises often littered the young boy’s pale, thin body. 

Sherlock was opposite form him, whereas Mycroft ate and gained weight throughout his childhood unhappiness; Sherlock refused food. He would go days without eating, controlling that one aspect of his life so rigidly since he had no control over the rest of it. The boy had a thin, wry and haggard appearance, much like a plant that had been kept in the dark.

After a few years Mycroft was wondering if he had enough leverage in certain circles to have his father discretely removed from his job and Sherlock extracted from his life.

 

 

A trip home for Christmas, overly sentimental and unnecessary, if it weren’t for the desire for his little brother to have at least one Christmas present. The day would just be like any day for this father in the cold household.

Sherlock seemed, more distant, if that were possible. Cold grey eyes boring into his, monosyllabic answers to his questions and not just out of boredom or irritation with his nosy big brother. Something was wrong. He was eight years old and Mycroft knew deep down what that man did to him. Just because Mycroft had been older before he touched him in any kind of sexual manner did not mean his brother had been spared the same fate.

Checking him over and finding no serious injuries he sent Sherlock to the cafe in the village centre with enough money to but every cake in the shop while he waited for his father’s return from his walk.

Their argument was astronomical. Mycroft made it clear that he was taking his brother away, in no uncertain circumstances. His father laugh, he actually laughed in his face in a deprecating way, employing his usual bullying tactics against his oldest son. 

Raised voices spilled out into the upper hall landing from the study, the cruel evil look on his father’s face. He wouldn’t let Sherlock go, not as long as he lived.

Mycroft could see it now; his father was an old man, twisted. The looming, monstrous figure as a child was a greying, bent shrivelling useless husk. He wondered why he had feared him for so long. 

Without really thinking, he extended his hand and pushed hard. Holmes senior toppled backwards down the stairs, crashing against the walls and stair edges brutally, before landing in a crumpled heap on the cold tile hallway floor at the bottom.

Heading for the front door, Mycroft casually stepped over the listless form and put on his coat. Surprised by his own actions and perhaps a little numb from the shock, he left the house in search of Sherlock. The man was still breathing, Mycroft noticed, as he left. He did not call an ambulance.

Their father’s body was discovered by the housekeeper later that evening. She had been having Christmas dinner with relatives in town and offered to take Sherlock with her as a treat. His father had refused even the smallest joy or luxury in the boy’s life. 

Mycroft received the call from the police as he his brother sat in the cinema of the nearest major town. Heading home, they arrived just in time to see the wrapped and covered body being taken out of the house.  
Asking whether he wanted to tell the authorities what his father had did to him, Mycroft only received a rapid shake of head from the younger boy and the desire never to mention it again. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot, whether he read some form of guilt in Mycroft’s face or concluded that it was just too big a coincidence for their father to have passed away now, of all times, he knew. He knew and he kept quiet with a shrug of shoulders and the request that he was allowed to burn the personal toys hidden in his father’s study. Apparently his collection had increased since Mycroft was a child. They emptied the incriminating items quickly before anyone had a chance to suspect or search the house. They needn’t have bothered.

Official cause of death was a heart attack; the coroner concluded Mr Holmes Senior most likely suffered the major heart attack after tripping and falling down the stairs. He seemed old for his age of only sixty and was becoming frail, he would have been knocked unconscious and his weak heart gave out. No suspicious was ever raised by the local police against either boy. 

A tragic accident.


	14. The Cold Light Of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: The Making of the Vampire  
> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down.
> 
> Rome, Italy, 1991

Mycroft awoke with a sharp jerk. He had no idea why he had dreamt of his childhood, now, of all times and after all these years. He tried to forget it all, to suppress it. Rarely did he or his brother mention their parents or their deaths. Even each other’s childhood was a taboo subject.

Bringing his hands up to rub his face after the horrible nightmares he paused mid movement. His hands were free! It took a few moments to comprehend. His hands had been tied. He had been lying on the cold ground, mostly naked, with people beating him and drinking his blood.

Opening his eyes a crack, he could see the sky above him was still a light navy blue. Clearly it was approaching dawn as the previously pitch black canopy was giving way to lighter shades.  
He rubbed his eyes carefully, listening for the slightest movement. The remains of the knotted rope were still looped around his wrists and ankles but they seemed to have been cut, the edges frayed as if sliced by a knife.

He could still hear voices, faint music and the laughter of a crowd. Carefully, he rolled onto his side expecting a fair degree of pain from his earlier injuries and an amount of stiffness from being tied and exposed to the chill night air. Mycroft was surprised he moved with ease. 

Mentally checking himself for injuries, he wondered if shock or blood loss was hindering pain sensors.

Glancing downward he was still only partially clothed but was covered in layers of dirt and blood. Strange but he couldn’t see any apparent injuries. There were bites there; he remembered that, surely he had not been hallucinating the pain as teeth sank into skin? A hand instinctively shot up to his neck expecting to find a mass of tissue damage from his captor. Nothing. 

There was blood, however. Blood was drying in thick scabbing flakes on his torso; he just couldn’t see any wounds. What on earth?

Mycroft considered his options. He was now, luckily or by reason, unbound. He had no idea where he was, no idea who these people were, he had unknown injuries and little clothing. Making a run for it seemed an unwise course of action albeit a natural one.

He chanced a glance across the sparse patches of grass and soil. Figures milled around a short distance away apparently paying no attention to him. He weighted up his options. Was this the plan? Let him loose so they could play their twisted games-chase him, hurt him for trying to escape or had they simply forgot about him? Abandoned on the edge of the clearing as unimportant or a toy to be used later? Perhaps they believed his injuries so bad he would not regain consciousness. Quite frankly so did he.

 

After what seemed like an eternity of indecision, he decided he had to do something, he could not lie hear and wait to be killed by that madman who seemed so intent on torturing him last night. Or was that this morning? Either way his only available course of action was to get on his feet.

Rolling over as slowly as possible, so as to not distract anyone’s attention with his movement, he paused face down, inwardly cursing the small crunch of leaves and twigs under his body as the noise seemed to thunder in his ears. He held his breath and waited for someone to notice. Thankfully they didn’t.

With no sound he slowly and carefully rose to his hands and knees, allowing stiff limbs and muscles to get used to his weight being back on them. 

Eventually he was upright, well, almost. 

Virtually bent double, keeping himself a small and unseen target, Mycroft ran to a thick clump of bushes and trees leaving the clearing and group of people behind him. Pausing only after several moments of putting distance between himself and the group of unhinged individuals who had been his hosts for the evening.

Hiding behind a particular thick tree, he considered his options. How long before they noticed his disappearance? Logically, if they were any kind of distance from civilisation those people would have to have cars nearby or there must be some sort of road or track he could follow. Within the clearing he did see a number of caravans, honest to god classic Romani caravans. He hoped all of them did not come by that mode of transport or he may well indeed by a long way from any amenities.

He focused on walking in a straight line, all too aware how easy it would be to become disorientated and walk in circles around a vast, semi-dark woodland. He was no astronomer, he had no clue as to how to navigate by constellations and anyway, it was fast becoming daylight.

An almighty commotion rose up somewhere behind him. In the pit of his stomach Mycroft knew they had discovered he was missing. No doubt some of them may be sent to search the area and there was every chance they knew it better than him. So he picked up his pace to a gentle jog, surprising himself at the ability to do so. He had been wounded and bound and to be perfectly honest his physique was not one prone to vigorous exercise at any point in his life.

Mycroft actually felt, well, invigorated. If that’s how he could describe it. Any tiredness seemed to have been shaken off and he had an itching in his muscles for action. However he did notice an uneasy feeling in his stomach, not entirely sure if it was hunger or fear and horror churning in his gut.

 

 

After what felt like hours of a brisk pace, interlaced with bouts of jogging, Mycroft could actually hear bustle in the distance. The distinct noise of traffic. Perhaps he was not as far from civilisation as he initially feared?

He followed his ears. Despite his captors realising he had gone he had thankfully yet to come into contact with any of them. Supposing he did come across another person? What would he do? The thoughts almost stopped him in his tracks. How could he be sure the next person he came across and asked for help would not be one of those monsters from last night and an actual passer-by that may help him?

He would have to worry about that time when it came. So far, he had yet to see sign of another person.

The sun was rising higher in the crystal blue Italian sky and despite his lack of clothing Mycroft noted he was sweating profusely, he felt as if his blood was boiling under his skin and had to shield his eyes against the glaring sun. There was a distinct itching across his skin, a prickling sensation that urged him to seek shelter in the cool shade of the trees.

Suddenly it felt strange to feel solid flooring under his feet as grass and soil gave way to tiles and cobbled pavement. 

An attack of sudden anxiety hit him again at the thought of approaching people. He was after all in a terrible state, mostly naked and filthy and he didn’t know exactly where he was. No doubt his tale of abduction and torture would seem fanciful; he would have said the same thing a few hours ago.

However he ploughed onwards, the shrubbery was thinning and trees were becoming less dense. Finding himself on a path was a godsend. An actual gravel pathway with neatly trimmed hedgerows and grass borders and potter flowers. 

The first people he had seen in hours approached in the distance. As they grew closer their pace hesitated, unsure obviously at the sight of the man before them. Mycroft headed in their direction to ask for help but they shied away chattering frantically in quite, local Italian. Clearly they thought he was some sort of deranged lunatic. He was trying to stop them, plead his case for help when others appeared, obviously idly strolling through the parklands and going about their everyday business. There was suddenly a chatter of people around him all speaking at the same time not listening to a word he was saying. 

Someone must have called the police to report a half-naked mad man on the loose, as after a few moments two officers in crisp shirt sleeves and neat uniforms approached with a crowd of people pointing and gesticulating in Mycroft’s direction.

Trying to explain what had happened to him he found himself escorted to a bustling street and manhandled into the back of a police car. Even though he still had the sense to try and express himself in Italian to the authorities, taking in his shocked and ragged state and the scare he had given passing citizens about people with fangs who drank blood; they clearly thought he was crazy. No doubt he could be expecting a trip to the local police station or nearest psychiatric hospital.

It wasn’t until he clearly and calmly demanded they at least contact the foreign ministry to verify who he was. The more senior agent rolled his eyes and picking up his radio with an expression that clearly said he was humouring him.

It could almost have been amusing to watch the death mask fall over his face as it was confirmed in crackling dulcet female tones over the radio that Mycroft was missing person. A very important missing person.   
Quickly the cuffs were removed and instead of being bundled into the back of the police car sans clothing he was hurriedly brought water and blankets. 

More police rapidly arrived, including armed response units, police dogs and several official looking men in suits. Wasn’t it nice to be so highly regarded? 

A recognisable long sleek black car pulled up near him. Out rushed Giulo Latorre in a torrent of abusive Italian at the officers in the vicinity. They all seemed to shrink and shy away under his wrath, clearing a very wide path. Mycroft only picked up every other word but the man was clearly furious and distraught.

Rushing towards him, Mycroft was soon enfolded in a rib-bruising embrace and kissed on the cheek more times than he though entirely appropriate. Holding him at arm’s length, Giulo looked him up and down with a pained expression at his appearance. He was murmuring and jabbering so quickly that Mycroft couldn’t quite pick him up.

He held up a grubby hand, ‘Please Giulo slow down, I have a terrible headache.’

‘Mr Holmes I have been so worried. The hotel manager altered me last night when you had not returned but it wasn’t until this morning that I realised something was very wrong. After all you could have simply been late in, at a bar or made your own entertainment for the night. But when you didn’t meet the car that was to pick you up this morning and we found you had not returned to the hotel at all…’

Mycroft sighed, suppressed shock dissolving into almost tears at the sight and sound of a friendly familiar person. He took a deep breath and composed himself, trying not to sound as weak as he felt at the moment. 

‘Only one night? It seemed like longer. I-I was attacked on the street. I must have been knocked unconscious; I woke up somewhere-somewhere else. I am not sure.’

‘I have had people combing the police stations and hospitals all morning! What has happened to you my friend?!’

Mycroft gave him a brief, edited version of events he gasped duly horrified.

‘What? This is most disturbing! But come, come, we will take you to a hospital.’

Mycroft watched the approaching ambulance with ill ease, suddenly blurting out ‘No!’

Giulo was startled at his outburst so he tried again, attempting to seem less emotional.

‘No, I mean, I don’t think I am badly injured, I think they may have given me some sort of drug, I seemed to dream injuries that are no longer there. I-I just want to go back to the hotel and get some of my own clothes.’ He shook the faded and patched makeshift blankets around his shoulder in mild disgust ‘and try to get some sleep in a bed.’

His friend eyed him with concern, clearly not buying he was ok.

‘Really Giulo, can I just-just get away from here, all these people, the crowds are getting to me.’

Reluctantly, Giulo waved away paramedics and attempted to smooth over Mycroft’s wishes with the authorities. He was being a dutiful agent and taking care of him the same was as since he arrived.

 

 

As short statement to the police later and Mycroft soon found himself bundled into the back of the sleek black Bentley car with Giulo and driver in tow, speeding rapidly towards his hotel.

Curling in on himself in the back seat he felt more at ease now, far away from the groups of police and authorities and the crowds of onlookers. He couldn’t quite place why he had felt so ill-tempered and was constantly on the edge of taking out his irritation with them. At the astonished and frankly unbelieving glanced of one police officer when reciting his version of events, Mycroft suddenly found himself with the uncontrollable desire to punch the arrogant man in the face. Repeatedly. Until his nose burst in a spray of dark red blood across his face. The thought was so vivid he had to close his eyes and count to ten. They almost called the paramedics back thinking that he had come over unwell. Mycroft had never felt a rage like it except once when he reached out a hand to push a sadistic paedophile down the stairs…

This all felt very surreal, he thought, as he tried in vain to relax in the back of the car. He could hear every small breath of the man next to him and was acutely aware of Giulo’s eyes trained on him every few moments. But it was almost as if it didn’t happen. Physically he was fine. The image of his attackers in the alley however was incredibly vivid as was the feel of them biting down onto soft flesh…

He shuddered and Giulo cast another sideways worrying glance at him in apparent disproval. Clearly someone thought he should go to a hospital but as far as Mycroft could see he was fine. He didn’t have a scratch on him. Now he thought on it that was very odd.


	15. Back To Normal?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 cont. The Making of the Vampire  
> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down.
> 
> Rome, Italy, 1991

It was a mark of just how up-market the hotel was that not a single of member of staff even batted an eyelid when Mycroft, almost naked and draped in dirt covered blanked, looking as if he had been pulled through a hedge backwards, strolled through the foyer with burly suited men that could only be recognised as bodyguards in tow.

Mycroft wanted nothing but a very hot shower and a clean, pressed three piece suit. Giulo duly followed him into the hotel, gibbering in rapid Italian to security, barking orders at scurrying bellhops. He was constantly on his phone to someone clearly significant, he had been chatting frustratedly since around ten minutes into their car journey. It may have been the Italian Prime Minister for all Mycroft knew, he hadn’t really been following the conversation from this side, but at the moment, he didn’t really care.

Mycroft, Giulo and security packed into the Westin Excelsior hotel lift and the doors whooshed closed. He felt mildly better and more secure since being rescued from his ordeal earlier this morning. Giulo turned to him, still with an edge of frustration and hysteria in his voice. 

‘Mycroft, I suggest you postpone your departure for tomorrow. Going on your evidence the police have been trying to find the area you described and you only gave a brief statement earlier. If you wait a few more days they may have further need of you.’

Sighing, he nodded in agreement. It was only logical after a situation of this kind; Mycroft knew he would have a lot of details to go through. If the perpetrators of his abduction were caught they would be up on some very serious charges. The last thing he wanted to do, however, was wait any longer in this country but he supposed what he wanted at his moment would be moot.

He must have look less than thrilled as the Italian quickly assured him there would be no hassle to himself whatsoever, he and his department would smooth things over in terms of the hotel in which he could continue to stay and re-booking any flights. He would also see that the British Government was well informed of what was going on and he should be on his way home in probably no more than a few days. 

Nodding wearily in acquiescence he glanced across the lift to his work companion. He seemed a little harassed; with lines of worry etched around his eyes and mouth but he still looked fresh and tidy and ready to start a whole new day, whereas the Brit knew he looked anything but. 

Giulo gave Mycroft a small reassuring smile which dimpled his cheeks just a little. The classic cut Italian suit broadened his shoulders making him seem bulkier than himself, a little wider, more solid, but they were around equal height. The suit hugged his chest and biceps, pinching at the waist. Trousers hugging just a little too tight at the hips, long legs that seemed to go on forever…

Mycroft gave himself a small shake, he had been staring. He hadn’t meant to. Really. 

He noticed Giulo was an attractive man the moment he met him from the airport but he usually didn’t make an issue of it. Mixing business with pleasure was never a good idea and there were lots of attractive people he dealt with on a day to day basis.

Trying to focus on something else entirely than what the Italian would look like out of that smart suit, Mycroft noticed the smell. 

Just what was that smell? Was that Giulo? Whatever aftershave he had on was currently assaulting Mycroft’s senses in an entirely pleasant way. The lift was small and cramped and he couldn’t help taking a few shuffling steps closer to the source.

The white shirt collar and sleeves were in bold contrast to the light coffee coloured skin. He was a good looking man, well groomed, athletic figure. A glance down to his hand which displayed the tell-tale plain gold wedding band. Still, Mycroft thought, the Italian wouldn’t have been the first man to have an affair, even with the opposite sex…

He didn’t realise he as watching the man so intently until Giulo turned and caught him unabashedly staring. However, his colleague looked more concerned than insulted. ‘Are you alright Mycroft?’

Somewhere in the depth of his psyche Holmes realised he needed to respond and stop staring at the small flick of wet tongue along the other man’s lips.

Snapping his head forward quickly mumbling a ‘Yes, sorry, just tired, ‘ and hoping that his gaze seemed vague given his ordeal and not fully of hungry lust like he felt at the moment.

What had come over him? It hadn’t been that long since he had had sex and he usually never mixed business with pleasure. He was here with a job to do and his new found fascination for Mr Latorre and his sculpted face with impossibly long dark lashes was not something that was a good idea just that this moment. Maybe he was more in shock than he initially thought?

 

 

Back in the hotel room Giulo followed him in. He wanted to have security in the room with Mycroft at all times and guards posted on the door but the government official waved away the notions as he headed for the bathroom, desperate to brush his teeth.

‘You are sure, Mycroft?’ His voice drifted through the partly closed bathroom door.

‘Yes, honestly. I will be fine inside the hotel. I do not intend to leave again until I am boarding the plane home. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with security standing outside and I would never sleep knowing they are in the room with me.’

‘As you wish. Is there anything else I can get you sir?’

‘No, no.’ He dismissed him quickly heading for the bathroom.

As Mycroft stepped under a wonderfully scalding hot shower he heard the tell-tale ring of Giulo’s phone in the room and the faint murmur of him answering it.

It felt wonderful to be so clean as he scrubbed every inch of himself, letting the dirt stained water swirl down the plug hole. It was strange he thought, as the water cascaded off his body in rivulets revealing pink scoured skin, there wasn’t even a bruise on him really.

Mycroft exited the shower feeling slightly better but promising himself a long hot soak in a bath once he returned to England until his toes and fingers shrivelled into prunes. Drying off quickly he then wrapped the large fluffy white towel around his waist.

The Italian was still pacing the room talking quickly, something about no security needed and the police investigation from what Mycroft could pick up from the one side of the conversation. 

Finishing chatting Giulo turned back to Mycroft who was busy rummaging in the drawers for clothing disappointed at the disappearance of one of his favourite and highly expensive suits from last night’s events.  
‘The police are a useless bunch of dogs. They believe they found the area you were held captive but there is nothing there.’

‘No one?’

Shaking his head disappointedly, ‘Nothing. There is evidence of many people in the last short while, old campfires, rubbish, debris, and the odd foot print. They are gathering evidence but it is clear the people have vacated with no sign of where they may have went.’

Sighing, Mycroft ground his teeth. If the Italians were going to be so hopelessly incompetent then he would need to see what his own people could get done when he returned to British soil. Giulo continued chatting,  
‘The police will see you tomorrow to go over some photographs of likely suspects, if you can try and identify anyone?’ 

He seemed so sure he could still sort everything out. Mycroft wasn’t holding out hope the police would catch any suspects. He waved a hand dismissively. Clearly he would need to try and sort this himself, ‘Yes, yes. Fine.’ He tried not to snap and improve his tone. It wasn’t really Giulo’s fault this had happened to him.

Mycroft dumped his folded clothing onto the top of the bed.

‘I am truly very sorry Mr Holmes. You have come here and we have treated you very poorly.’

He was only a few feet from his friend. Giulo seemed so sincere in his upset. 

‘Really Giulo, call me Mycroft, and none of this is your fault. You have done your very best to make the stay highly hospitable.’

He still seemed anxious, Mycroft thought. No doubt expecting him to place the blame solely on his host’s shoulders. He couldn’t help watch the small pulse jump in his neck, sweat gathering on his brow line, the idle fidgeting with shirt collar and cuffs. 

Taking a deep breath was a bad idea as his lungs filled with the musky scene of whatever his colleague was wearing that had seemed so enticing in the lift. Larger hotel rooms did nothing to dissipate the effects.   
His eyes fluttered closed and when he opened them, Mycroft was shocked to find he had taken two healthy steps forward in the Italian’s direction without even realising he had moved.

Giulo was looking at him with a mixture of worry and fear. Quicker than either of them could anticipate, Mycroft grabbed the front of his jacked and pulled the other man towards him until their mouths crashed together. 

A shocked squeak of protest was lost in his insistent mouth as Holmes shoved hard. Stumbling backwards a few steps Guilo’s knees connected with the edge of the bed and he tumbled down onto it, Mycroft riding his body down with his own.

Giulo let out a small oomph of air as Mycroft’s weight landed on top of him, pushing him into the soft mattress of the bed.

Mycroft’s mouth fed greedily at the man under him. He tasted wonderful, lips soft, a small amount of dark stubble scratching along his jaw. Firm hands were on his shoulders pushing insistently but Mycroft paid no notice, instead delighting in sliding his tongue into the other man’s mouth.

Mumbling and protest under him but his brain didn’t seem to want to process. At that moment he wanted to touch him, taste him, sink teeth into all that delicious dark skin. Long pale fingers slid down Giulo’s body, hitching up the suit jacket and tugging at the shirt eager to pull it from the confines of his trousers. Mycroft groaned in pleasure as his hand connected with warm, soft smooth hip flesh.

Giulo squirmed and wriggled under him which only made it all the more exciting, the rest his suit sliding over bare skin. The towel had dislodged in the scuffle but was still trapped as the front of their bodies ground together.

Mycroft was drowning in sensation and smells of the man under him but it wasn’t enough, he needed something more he just couldn’t put his finger on what.

Fingers dug painfully into his pale bare shoulder, nails scratched the skin drawing blood but it seemed inconsequential. Giulo mumbled into his mouth, screams lost in the frenzy. Moving his head, Mycroft had to use one hand to grab his jaw, cradling it so that he could keep contact, tongue dancing with the Italian’s.

Mycroft pulled away and began attacking Giulo’s strong jaw line with lips and teeth, nibbling a path down the beautifully tanned musk scented skin.

‘Mycroft stop let me up!’ His voice was panicked and pleading.

Bracing feet against the bed, Giulo attempted to get some leverage to push himself up, but with another man’s weight sprawled on top it was difficulty. Holmes possessed more strength than he anticipated.

‘Mr Holmes, please!’

It would seem he wasn’t listening. Mycroft had worked down to his neck and was loosening the collar of his shirt and tie, exposing more sensitive flesh. He kissed the big pulse in Giulo’s neck delighting in the fluttering of it under his lips, so delicate, so breakable.

He was only vaguely aware of murmuring from Giulo's direction, any cries of protest lost in the smell and touch and feel of him as he was swept up in whatever this was.

‘I don't want to…I’m not like, you, no please.’

His hand slid downward groping along the thigh of helpless trapped man below. Resting over this groin, fingers his slipped over the fly on his trousers eagerly attempting to loosen the clothing and reach inside.

‘Stop, get off me now, please stop, I do not, with men-.’

Mycroft hovered over his prize, something instinctual took over, teeth sank into warm soft flesh and he felt it give way under him. It felt right. It felt wonderful. This is what was missing.

A sharp cry under him, Giulo braced elbows and feet on the bed, with an almighty push he finally managed to shove Mycroft sideway slightly and he rolled quickly from under him onto the floor. Standing, he backed up towards the wall quickly.

Mycroft snarled, denied his prize. He was about to leap from the bed, grab and snatch and finish what he started when he saw Giulo’s shocked and horrified face. The man was dishevelled and gasping for breath. A hand flew to his neck and it came away smeared with blood. 

Licking his lips Mycroft could taste it; the sweet metallic taste swirled around his mouth and slid down his throat better than any fine wine he had drunk recently. He was shocked.

‘What the fuck do you think you were doing?’ The Italian was screaming, appalled.

Mycroft swallowed hard. What, indeed, had he been doing? What possibly possessed him? Giulo clearly hadn’t been interested; he hadn’t wanted any of his advances and for some reason Holmes had chosen not to hear.

Eventually he found his voice, soft and confused, ‘Giulo, I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me-‘

Pointing an accusing finger in his direction, the Italian had almost backed right up to the bedroom door as Holmes moved, ‘Stay away from me!’ 

Sliding easily off the bed, Mycroft wanted to go to him, to explain. Unfortunately as he did so the dislodged towel slipped. Naked and standing before him, his growing excitement was now evident and on show. Reaching down hastily to collect the fallen towel he heard the door slam violently. By the time everything was secure and back in place Giulo had disappeared form he room. When he opened the door there was no sign of the other man in the hallway.

Sighing, Mycroft retreated to his room worrying about what would happen next. He just sexually assaulted his host not to mention bit him hard enough to draw blood.

He was in trouble and he had no idea what to do.


	16. Death Is Only the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: Making The Vampire  
> Left with the care of his younger brother after the death of their parents, Mycroft’s life is not ideal but he has a measure of success in his career. Sent to Italy for routine work, his world is about to be turned upside down
> 
> Rome, Italy, 1991,

He couldn’t sleep. No matter what he did nothing seemed to give him rest so instead, Mycroft paced restlessly around his hotel room.

After the incident with Giulo he had tried desperately to call him. He tried the phone numbers for his office, his P.A and even his home. 

Nothing. 

Giulo was pointedly ignoring his calls and deep down, Holmes knew the man had a right to after his despicable behaviour. He had fully expected to find the authorities at his hotel room door within minutes of him fleeing the room.

However hours dragged by with no event and Mycroft soon received an unexpected call from the Italian foreign ministry stating Mr Latorre was taking some personal time and they were very sorry to inconvenience him but another handler would be assigned to his service for any future engagements.

Any protest on his part was rebuffed. They clearly knew nothing about the incident itself, Mycroft could only assume Giulo had made up some sort of story to have himself reassigned, but that was of little comfort. Resigned to his fate; being ignored was certainly the best he could have hoped for given the circumstances. However he did wish he could have apologised.

With nothing to occupy his time, his mind worked unceasingly to come up with an adequate solution as to just what had happened to him the previous night with his captors and what on earth came over him in assaulting poor Giulo.

 

 

Night fell outside and the hotel room darkened as it drew into late evening. The lights remained off, Mycroft’s vision perfectly fine in the blissful hidden dark.

Stomach telling him he was desperately hungry, he ordered some food from the hotel’s restaurant to be brought to the room. 

Unfortunately, as soon as the tray was sat in front of him he lost all appetite. Knowing he hadn’t eaten anything for at least 24 hours, Mycroft felt he should at least have a go. Yet the smell of the food turned his stomach. Sitting, looking down at chicken smothered in a congealing lumpy sauce and over cooked, slightly burnt potatoes, he couldn’t do it. Raising the fork to his lips he found he couldn’t even force a mouthful, stomach heaving at the prospect.

Mycroft pushed the plate away in disgust and curled up on the large four poster bed. Sitting with his back to the wall and hugging longs legs to his chest he wondered what was happening to him. He was hungry, but not for food, he was restless and agitated, body humming with energy to go out and do...something.

Running hands down bare arms he realised he was cold. After the incident with Guilo he hadn’t bothered to put on the suit initially laid out. Instead he sat, still only half wrapped in the damp bath towel. His skin was cold to the touch but he realised, inexplicably, he couldn’t feel it. He didn’t actually feel cold nor have any desire to pull on layers of clothing and snuggle into the warm bed clothes; it was as if it didn’t matter.  
Turning over the previous night’s events in his mind, logic told him one thing but instinct was telling him something completely different. Those people, those people were not human. It was impossible.

What had they done to him? Mycroft couldn’t quite put his finger on it but something seemed...off. He seemed off. He never though he would be susceptible to shock but he supposed he had almost died. Perhaps these feelings and the assault on his friend were the after effects of whatever drugs he was convinced his attackers had given him? Maybe he should have taken up Giulo’s original offer of going to the hospital or having a Doctor check him over. The new minister assigned to him would no doubt sort it all out easily if he asked.

 

 

Eventually, having come to no further conclusions and still uneasy about any kind of trip to an Italian hospital, he crawled into bed pulling the stark white sheet up under his chin. 

He tried to sleep but seemed infinitely aware of every small noise in the room and on the street outside. Mind overstimulated, he tossed and turned in bed, finally lulling into a state somewhere between awake and dreaming.

Horrible images flashed through his unconscious mind, half human animals with snarling fangs, his father raising his fists to him, he felt she sharp sting of a blow to the head sending him tumbling into the dark. Suddenly his mother’s dead body was there, lying at an awkward angle at the bottom of the stairs, head turned towards him asking why. Sherlock’s face was in front of his own, pale skin stretching alarmingly as he opened his skeletal-like mouth wide in a silent scream, long snarling fangs dripping with blood coming every closer...

Mycroft awoke in a cold sweat with a sudden sharp jerk, sitting bolt upright in bed. Rubbing both his hands over his tired face, he told himself that he was being silly. Nightmares, nothing more. He was no stranger to trauma in his life and had yet to suffer-he thought- any serious mental repercussions. This incident should be no different.

It was a few moments before he realised that he wasn’t alone in the room. Some imperceptible shift of air currents told him someone was there, in the dark. His brain kicked into gear, no weapon was close enough to hand and he was vulnerable lying in bed. 

Quickly he reached out and turned on the bedside lamp, it was small and only afforded a faintly minimal glow that didn’t even reach to the very corners of the room.

It didn’t have to, a lone figure sat on one of the high backed chairs near the table. Despite knowing someone was there, Mycroft still gave a small start at the revelation.

‘You must leave.’ The figure rasped insistently. It was a woman and her voice was thick, heavily accented Italian.

‘Leave? This is my room, perhaps you are under some delusion, you should be the one to leave.’ 

Mycroft hoped his voice sounded more resolute than he felt. His last negotiation didn’t exactly do well, his should instinctively flexed as if they were still strained and bound.

The woman shook her dark head rapidly, ‘No you must go, go home.’

‘Why? Perhaps you would care to explain how you gained access to my room?’

She held up a long thin key card, from appearance it looked like the kind used for opening the hotel room doors. 

‘I know friends who work here.' She said absently, as if that was of no great importance.

Mycroft eyed her warily, he did not like the idea it was so easy to enter such an expensive and apparently well secured hotel and he still had no idea what she wanted. Was she one of those people from last night?

‘Please! Mr Holmes, I beg of you to go home.’ Her words were practically a sob in desperation. She was a marvellous actress if it wasn’t sincere. His head jerked at the mention of his name. Just how did she know who he was? 

As if the figure read his thoughts she held a black, square object towards him. Careful not to move closer or to startle the man on the bed she threw the object on top of the covers at his feet.

He recognised his wallet. Mycroft opened it up, of course all the money was going from it, he didn’t have anything that identified his position within her majesty’s government for security reasons but he did have a number of cards and some bills in his name.

He sat it on the bedside. She was one of them. She had to be. When he was attacked they took his clothing, his wallet was in his suit trousers. How was he going to alert the authorities with her so close to him? He had been confident his previous attackers were no match for him but he had been wrong. Still, there was three of them and she was one, small, sleight woman. Perhaps he would have better luck this time?

Her voice floated towards him in a soft, hushed, terrified whisper, ‘He will kill you if he finds you.’

‘Kill me? Who will kill me?’

‘You were not supposed to be. They didn’t mean to make you.’

‘Make me? What are you talking about?’ She was taking in riddles and he was confused. Still, she seems so earnest and so far had not been threatening.

‘Can you not feel it?’ She rose and approached the bed cautiously, almost as if she were more afraid of him, yet Mycroft still fought not to shirk away.

‘You are now on of them.’

‘Listen’ he said with a semblance of his usual authority. ‘I do not know what your game is or why you are here but this has to stop. The police have been sent to find your friends and if you do not leave here this instant I will call security and you will be arrested too.’

The dark woman only looked at him desperately with a tinge of sadness, ‘You are, how you say, maldetto, please I came to warn you, you have to understand.’

‘Cursed? My dear, there is no such thing.’

She shook her head with such vehemence and sat at the end of the bed looking at him imploringly.

‘You are not like the others they take. They take them for fun, for food. Tourists, immigrants, homeless, people not easy to find, those easily misplaced. They take them and they die, they drink all their blood.’

‘Why do they drink their blood?’

‘Because it is what they are. They drink to live. And now you will need too also.’

He couldn’t help a nervous chuckle, ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You are hungry, yes?’ He eyed her warily wondering where this was going. ‘But not for food, you can’t eat food, yet you want something you can’t quite put your finger on.’

Mycroft was getting a horrible sinking feeling in his gut. The same feelings he had earlier when he wanted nothing more than to feel the soft skin of Guilo give way under him and taste more of the metallic sweet blood filling his veins. He had fought the impulse not to jump off the bed and grab the man, wrestle him to the ground and bite him again before he fled.

‘You are like them, they killed you. You died.’

‘I’m not dead-‘

‘Yes, dead but not dead. Do you understand?’ Her English was limited. Her eyes glared at him in silent frustration willing him to accept, to understand what she could not say or explain.

‘If you are trying to say I am some sort of vampire-‘

‘Yes!’ She cried ‘yes that is your word, vampiro.’

‘That is absurd.’

‘You died, they drank too much blood. They all die.’

‘If what you say is true then why did I escape, why did they cut the ropes from me?’

‘Escaping was an accident. You came back too quickly.’

He couldn’t believe he was entertaining the notion, ‘Too quickly?’

‘Once dead they cut up the bodies or else they all become like them, and set fire to the remains. No trace. But you-you came back too quickly. Sometimes it takes days for one of them to rise, some wake up in their graves but for you-it was a matter of hours. It was...unexpected. They were in the process of disposing of you, but you got away.’

He sat astonished that he was taking this in and even asking questions. No this was absurd. This woman was a part of their group. The beat him, abducted him and tortured him. That was all there was to it.  
‘Something powerful keeps you in this world Mr Holmes. What were you thinking of when you died.’

He hesitated; this all sounded far too much like mumbo jumbo, ‘Listen I didn’t die-‘Mycroft paused. He remembered. He had been dreaming of his brother when he found himself awake in the forest clearing, dreaming of their childhood, how he had been helpless to protect the young Sherlock and eventually committed the ultimate crime to free them of their father.

‘My-my brother. I dreamed of him.’

‘You are close? You love him?’

‘No, not really, we are not close but he is all I have and I am all he has.’

‘It is better he thinks you dead.’ The woman said it with such conviction.

‘Listen, I’m not dead-‘ Mycroft tried again wearily. You couldn’t be dead and walking around.

She was still insistent. ‘You will hurt him. You will only think of the hunger, the blood. If you love him you will not go near him.’

 

Silence stretched in the room. Mycroft couldn’t believe he was even entertaining idea. But still. Still something in the back of his mind niggled at him. Nothing felt quite right since he woke up on the forest, nothing was quite the same. He had unexpected violent urges to punch Giulo in the face when he saw him earlier and found himself mesmerised by the smell of his skin, he could practically hear the drum like beat of his pulse in his chest, pumping all the delicious warm blood around his veins...

Shit. Where did that come from? He could see quite vividly Guilo sprawled across his bed, suit in disarray, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling unfocused, throat torn out, blood splattered across the white sheets.   
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. That’s what he would have done. If Giulo hadn’t run away, he knew now with certainty the man would not have lived had he spent any longer in the room.

‘Why are you here?’ He eventually said to the stranger, wearily.

‘To help.’

‘Why?’

‘You helped me.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘You helped him, you didn’t have to. If you hadn’t intervened...’

She noticed his puzzled expression.

‘The boy, the boy you tried to save. My son. He was trying to get away from them. At first he wanted to be one of them, he wanted them to make him Vampiro. But he changed his mind; they would not let him change his mind. The man, Giuseppe, the leader of the group, he talked to you.’

Mycroft recalled the small dark haired man with wide evil grin and shuddered, he had taken great pleasure in torturing him.

‘He is his grandfather, my father. I refused my father; so far he respects my wishes. I am not like them. He...he killed my mother when he first turned. He needed blood so badly and...lost control. I don’t want my son to be like him, he is a monster. Some do not enjoy what they are but he does. He enjoys killing people’

Mycroft blanched what a lovely family, rivalled his own really.

‘He killed you.’ The woman said it matter-of-factly.

Shaking his head slowly, she kept saying he was one of them, kept claiming he was dead. Rationality told him no, deduction was telling him something else.

‘Listen, you may mean well but your petty superstitions-‘

He was cut off abruptly as she leaned forward and put her hand on his chest. He could feel the warm, moist palm heating the skin where she touched. It sent a thrill through his body and he shivered, not from cold, but pleasure.

‘There is nothing there, Mr Holmes. Your heart will only beat when you feed. You must learn, you must learn what to do to stay alive if that is what you wish.’

He swallowed, he could almost feel his body leeching the warmth from her hand, pulling it in, drawing the heat and life into his skin like a moth to a flame.

‘You have to learn. I will give you this, as you tried to give me my son.’ 

He wasn’t listening to her. He was more than acutely aware of her touch on his body. He wondered if her skin would be as soft and smooth all over. He could slide his hands under the fabric, have her undressed in seconds.

He watched, entranced as she rolled up a sleeve, a smooth expanse of taught tanned skin waved enticingly under his nose.

‘If you do not take took much, you will not kill the person you drink from.’

Mycroft backed further along the bed, against the headboard shaking his head. He wasn’t what she said he was, he couldn’t be. He would not do it.

Pressing further towards him, she smelled so good, so alive and delicious. He longed to run his mouth over the exposed skin to lick the salty sweat from the surface. Her arm waved under his chin, he could smell it, the sweet metallic smell of blood, and he imagined he could actually see it under her skin pulsing along thin blue veins.

Before Mycroft knew it her arm was cradled between his hands, his body knew what it was doing, and it was completely instinctive. His mind told himself he wouldn’t do it, he was a man, and people did not go around biting other people. Even as he replayed that mantra over and over in desperation, his lowered inexplicably downwards, hovering over warm skin.

Everything unexpectedly focused; it was almost like night vision, the best way he could describe it. The room, the woman, everything was incredibly sharp and in focus. 

He glanced upwards his companions eyes were wide in fear, Mycroft could feel her fear, he could practically smell it and taste it on the tip of his tongue. Her pulse beat frantically in her throat, fluttering just under the skin like a small trapped animal. 

This was simultaneously amazing and impossible, the world and everything in it seemed infinitely magnified.

He found himself sinking teeth into invitingly soft skin; sharp canine fangs sprung from nowhere and pierced the flesh easily.

Warm metallic blood filled his mouth and assaulted every sense. It was wonderful. Like nothing he ever felt. The hunger that had been building in him all day was now sated, this is what he wanted, this is what his body now craved.

A small whimper drew his attention upwards, her facial expression slackened; Mycroft would have thought she would have been in more pain. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated as she bit her lip from making more noise.

He drank. Her blood tasted finer than any wine, smooth and rich; no brandy or scotch could compete.

He drank, mouth working, the small bunch and play of her muscles under skin, he could feel and interpret every one. His throat worked greedily, draining the warm wet liquid from the wounds into his mouth.  
A hand on his shoulder made to push him away but he did not want to leave, this was too delicious, she was nothing, nothing but an irksome fly. Her insistence grew, pushing at his torso, trying to remove him from her arm. Mycroft knew she would not be able to, she would not have the strength, and she couldn’t stop him even if she wanted to. All he had to do was hold on, push her down and take everything…

Mycroft pulled back abruptly, chest heaving and panting heavily, almost as if he had been vigorously exercising but he knew it was from pleasure from bloodlust. He couldn’t help but watch the small trickle of blood seep from her forearm and glide across the tanned golden skin. He watched its path across until it dripped and spotted onto the clean but rumpled bed sheet, just two little drops showing stark red against white.

It took more effort than he would like to admit not to pounce and take the remaining blood from her body. It would be so easy, too easy to pin her down and take what he wanted. He licked his lips unconsciously then realised what he done. Startled, he tried to focus his mind, to concentrate on something and not on the fact he had just contemplated murdering another human being just so he could drink their blood.  
She looked at him reproachfully as she examined the mark on her arm. The blood had already stopped now Mycroft want licking at it, congealing quickly around the wound.

Her voice was thick with scorn as she rubbed the mark, ‘You see?’

He admitted it, he was beginning to believe. Shakily he reached his hand up to his mouth and felt along regular teeth then came to sharp pointed fang unexpectedly. He cut his own finger, slicing through his skin on the tip of his index finger. The sharp fangs seemed to recede as quickly as they came. 

Mycroft examined the cut on his finger. A droplet of blood had formed on the tip and he brushed it between his thumb and forefinger. The small cut underneath knitted and closed before his eyes, leaving smooth milky white skin. There wasn’t a mark on him. So that is why there were no injuries on him this morning.

‘I must go.’ The woman gathered her things and coat from the chair as she headed for the door while he was distractedly exploring new feelings and sensations. Before he knew hit, he was off the bed and standing alarmingly close. Mycroft hadn’t even realised what he had done until they were standing almost toe to toe. She pulled back in fear and he did the same.

‘Wait, you have to help. What do I do? I can’t possibly go around drinking people’s blood!’

She looked sadly at him, ‘I do not know what you are going to do, but don’t be like them.’

‘How can no one know about this? The government... I saw at least two dozen people, things, vampires if you will, in those woods.!presume there is more across the country, across the world. This cannot be hidden. They are killing people and you tell me they drain them dry and burn their bodies.’

A small nod, ‘unless they make them one of you, but you were an accident Mr Holmes, they have seen your wallet, if I know you are here then they do to. If I were you, I would go home before Giuseppe comes to finish you off, he doesn’t like being made a fool of.’

She slinked out and closed the door softly behind her leaving Mycroft staring at the blank expanse of wood with a million questions running through his mind.


	17. The Resident Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part3: The Path To Damnation  
> Having stumbled upon Mycroft’s vampirism the revelation has left a strain on John and Sherlock’s friendship. The doctor tries to reconcile life with his friend and the after math of recent events. Unfortunately things are never easy, and he is about to become much more to Mycroft than simply his brother’s flat mate.

It was surprising how quickly life continued to tick by with Sherlock, despite the recent revelation of Mycroft’s...condition. Things at Baker Street were almost normal, well, as normal as things ever got with the great detective. 

Just last week, John walked in on a most unusual sight of three dwarfs resplendent in full clown make up, one monkey, and a six foot five muscled woman in a leotard with python wrapped around her neck, talking about the disappearance of Bobo, who happened to be the fourth of the clown troop from the newly arrived circus. 

He promptly turned and headed to his room, concealing the laughter that was threatening to erupt in his friends face. It was several hours later before John heard the unusual group traipse down the stairs. Apparently, not an interesting enough a case for the detective but John still thought the explanation as to Bobo’s disappearance was remarkably entertaining.

He was true to his word of endeavouring to be more accepting of recent events, realising that there were things that his flatmate just didn’t want to talk about. That included his brother. Sherlock remained mute on the subject. It was a pity, as John had several hundred burning questions in his mind. It was utterly fascinating, like discovering Santa or the Tooth Fairy was real but an icy glare was all he received if he tried to bring up any topic even remotely connected to vampirism.

Now that he thought on it, John realised he hadn’t seen much of Holmes senior recently. He had no idea whether the Holmes brothers were purposely keeping out of his way or if it were a mere coincidence. Normal dealings with Mycroft were previously always limited, knowing what he was did not make them best friends or give any reason to pop round more frequently for tea.   
Catching only brief glimpses of Mycroft as he left the Baker Street flat and exchanging a few cursory overly polite words, he was partly thankful for not walking in on any disturbing scenes like the rather imitate feeding he had only a few months ago.

 

 

Sherlock Holmes was a horrible patient, plain and simple. It was late autumn and the usual British weather had turned cold and murky with dark grey skies threating daily downpours of rain. For the last two days Sherlock had coughed, spluttered and sneezed his way throughout the flat. 

John was surprised he himself hadn’t caught a cold yet; a bug was definitely going around. Even Mrs Hudson had come down with it resulting in an uncharacteristic vicious backlash of temper in the boy’s direction regarding the mess. 

Despite his best doctoring attempts to at least get Sherlock to drink more fluids and eat something to help build his immune system, the stubborn man resolutely refused to listen, instead carrying on his usual working frenzy and leaving a trail of used tissues in his wake.

After two days of cold like symptoms and coughing fits throughout the night, John was at his wits end. 

One morning, as he was reading the paper in the sitting room, Sherlock was up much later than usual. The man hardly ever slept and he was normally always awake before him, no matter what time John decided to get up.

Staggered from his bedroom, still clad in his pyjamas with dressing gown practically wrapped around his neck, Holmes was sweating profusely and staggering groggily before he collapsed onto the couch, exhausted from the minimal movement. 

No energy, elevated temperature, his voice was raspy and he talked as if he had a clothes peg stuck across his nostrils. His friend was also a horrible sickly shade of grey. Sighing, John helped Sherlock back into bed, who didn’t even have the energy to protest. 

Oh dear, he thought, it would appear the great consulting detective had a very bad case of flu.

Tucking him into bed in an effort to keep him warm, John set about playing nursemaid to the poorly Sherlock. It was certainly a most challenging task. He spent most of his days checking on the patient, making him tea and food, most of which was left annoyingly untouched.

‘Sherlock, listen, you have to keep your strength up, come on, a little food, for me.’ 

Why he bothered trying to persuade him, he did not know as he had yet to cajole his friend into anything. There were only angry grey-eyed glares from under the blankets. 

The fact Sherlock was even still in bed told John just how ill he must have been feeling. Normally he still traipsed around the flat working reverently and not resting, much like he had initially for first few days until the virus overwhelmed his weakened body. He must be feeling truly awful to be actually lying still and sleeping for any length of time.

However, it was like taking care of a five year old. Sherlock, John noted, was demanding, petulant and childish. Not that he didn’t have these characteristics normally, but illness seemed to exacerbate his temperament. He refused all advice, not even ‘doctors orders’ could get him to swallow the aspirin and cough mixture purchased for him. As a result, Sherlock didn’t seem to be getting much better, much to john’s concern.

 

 

An unexpected visitor arrived one afternoon as he was trying, for the umpteenth time to get Sherlock to try a little soup before it turned cold and congealed on the bedside table.

Mycroft planted himself firmly in the armchair by the mantle, taking a cursory glance at the destruction all around him.

‘Where is Sherlock, John?’

‘He is in bed.’

Mycroft observed Johns tired eyes, his dishevelled appearance and the extensive (more so) disarrayed of the living room, along with big boxes of tissues. He smirked, a little too gleefully John thought.

‘Something funny?’ His tone was sharp, John knew, but the patients coughing and sneezing had been keeping him up half the night, even echoing through the thick walls of the Baker Street flat.

‘I take it my brother has a cold.’ The older Holmes commented succulently.

The smirk was still in place. John narrowed his eyes as him as he chuckled, little evilly.

‘My brother has never been a model patient, when he is ill he had the tendency to make everyone else suffer with him. His mind hates idleness and being ill often robs him of his boisterous enthusiasm.’

The Government official warily eyed the bottle of cough syrup John currently had in his hand. His eyebrows rose alarmingly, ‘You are not planning on trying to give him that, are you?’

Glancing down at the offending item which he had unsuccessfully tried to give Sherlock the last few days, ‘Um, yeah, why not?’

Mycroft shrugged, noncommittally, ‘I wouldn’t.’ 

With that rather mysterious parting comment, he took no notice and headed into Sherlock’s bedroom to see if there was anything he could get him. 

 

 

A few minutes later he emerged, globs of sticky syrup running down his face and matted into his hair. John grabbed a towel, rubbing vigorously to try and get it off.

‘Don’t!’ he warned as he saw the older Holmes lip twitch, eyes sparkling with mirth. It was no good, unable to contain himself Mycroft burst into uproarious laughter, almost bent double in the chair over his umbrella that was resting upright on the floor.

John was startled, he didn’t think he had ever heard Mycroft laugh heartily or good naturedly, it was a rich deep booming laugh, like nothing he had ever even heard from Sherlock.

‘It’s not funny.’

Mycroft attempted, unsuccessfully, to kerb his laughter. Eventually, still chuckling and wiping tear stained eyes he said, ‘Oh, yes it is.’

John’s lip twitched, a small smile playing across his features. Ok, maybe it was a little funny.

‘I warned you Doctor, Sherlock is a horrible patient. I remember when he was twelve he broke his leg trying to install one of his experiments up a tree-something about weather and rainfall and lightening strikes or something-he fell out the tree and spent twelve weeks in full plaster. After three weeks he insisted that I carry him outside to complete his experiment, which I agreed to, much to my mistake. Unfortunately with his yelling and wriggling he made me stumble on the stairs. As a result Sherlock spent even longer in plaster and I also broke my arm.’

It was Johns turn to laugh, imagining Mycroft trying and failing to carry an angry, squirming Sherlock and both of them ending up in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Still laughing, ‘Was there something you wanted?’

Mycroft shifted his gaze, pointedly looking at the tip of his umbrella resting on the floor. 

‘Nothing, important.’

John rolled his eyes, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, ‘you are here to, um, feed?’

The Government official nodded once face an expressionless mask, betraying nothing.

‘He is not well Mycroft.’ John tried not to let any uneasy feelings inflict in his voice but felt he may have failed. He still wasn’t entirely happy or comfortable with the situation of Sherlock feeding his brother.

‘I know. I will leave if there is nothing you need. Perhaps another day.’

‘You can’t get sick from him right?’

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, ‘No I can not get ill. Drinking from him while he is sick however would be a bad idea. Sherlock is already weak; blood loss on top of that would not help.’

On his feet quickly, Mycroft was heading for the sitting room door, umbrella swinging in hand. Plucking up courage to probe further into the unusual relationship, John called back the older Holmes.

‘Er, Mycroft?’

‘Yes.’

‘What, er, what about you? What will you do if you can’t feed off Sherlock?’

‘It is not essential I take his blood today, I can wait.’

John realised he must have made a face, Mycroft sighed wearily, ‘Do not fret Doctor, I will not starve and I will not start attacking innocent bystanders. I have a few weeks leeway.’


	18. From Bad To Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3: The Path To Damnation  
> Having stumbled upon Mycroft’s vampirism the revelation has left a strain on John and Sherlock’s friendship. The doctor tries to reconcile life with his friend and the after math of recent events. Unfortunately things are never easy, and he is about to become much more to Mycroft than simply his brother’s flat mate.

Sherlock slept almost constantly for the next two days. John admitted, only to himself, that he was getting more than a little worried. His flat mate still wasn’t eating and drinking as much as he would have liked, despite his best persuasive efforts and in the middle of the night he could hear him coughing laboriously through the thick Baker Street walls.

Mycroft also appeared at the flat after a few days and was slightly shocked to find his brother still unwell and the Doctor looking tired and sleep deprived.

John studied the older man as he situated himself into an armchair, refusing to remove his gloves or coat. Was it just his imagination or did he seem paler than usual? Eyes slightly sunken and red rimmed, hair lank, waxen skin; he couldn’t swear to it but Mycroft seemed rather ill. 

How could he be ill? He is dead! 

Upsetting realisation hit him like a knife in the gut. This is what happens from lack of blood. Dependant on his brother’s very life blood, when denied, the effects began making themselves apparent on his body. Mycroft sat in the Baker Street sitting room and was looking far from his best despite the freshly laundered suit and outwardly customary mannerisms. Now John was doubly worried.

Sherlock was desperately ill. He was considering taking his friend to hospital since the stubborn detective flatly refused to allow him to call in a second doctor for his opinion, insisting that he would be fine and on his feet in just a few more days. 

However it meant that Mycroft had been denied his brother twice already. How long could he go without blood, John wondered? He was adamant that it could not happen, not in the condition Sherlock was in but now he felt slightly responsible for both brothers well being.

Scolding himself for overdue worry, he reminded himself that Mycroft was not his problem. John wasn’t technically responsible for Sherlock either but he was his friend and flatmate, the least he could do was make sure he was ok.

The concern on the Government official’s part did seem sincere, however John wondered if it was truly for his brother’s health or merely his own selfish reasons. 

He realised that he was perhaps being a little unfair to the older Holmes; Mycroft had not commented or complained when he flatly refused to allow him to even see Sherlock. Knowing his friend, he would do something stupid; like allowing his brother to take the blood.

Sitting wearily on the chair opposite, Mycroft gave him a pitying look. Having just spent a half hour cleaning Sherlock’s bedroom when he had thrown up the little food he managed to force into him, things were going from bad to worse. The older Holmes looked, almost sympathetic as he watched him struggle out Sherlock’s room with towels and plates and bowls of water. Eventually he rose from the fire side and took a bundle of items from John’s arms, sitting them delicately on what little spare space there was on the kitchen table.

The Doctor risked more exposure to the cold autumn winds by opening the windows and throwing an extra blanket on top of Sherlock. He had been in the room a week and it was beginning to smell. John tried not to think about later when he was going to propose he assist Sherlock in a bath. That conversation was not going to be fun.

‘My brother is still ill I take it?’

John sighed, ‘Yes, and he doesn’t seem to be getting better. If it is a really bad flu he had he could be laid up for weeks.’

Something passed across Mycroft’s face and he realised the implication. 

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do not concern yourself with me Doctor, will be fine. I will wait and see how he is in the next few days.

‘You sure you are not going to-‘ He trailed off, not quite knowing what to say or even what would happen to Mycroft without blood. Could he die? Did vampires starve?

-‘drop down dead? Too late I’m afraid.’ Mycroft gave him a sardonic smile before saying, ‘Call me if you need anything, except babysitting of course. I have had my fill of an ill Sherlock and temper tantrums for one life time.’

‘Sure. And thanks for at least coming around.’ Bending to retrieve a pile of Sherlock’s clothing and soiled bedding, the other man held out a hand to stop him.

‘He is not your responsibility you know, he is a grown man with a cold, and you do not need to nurse him. He takes advantage of you John, because he can. I do too of course. I have used you to look out for him but I don’t think you need to sit by his bedside and wipe his nose.’

Shrugging. He didn’t know quite how to respond. It felt silly to say he felt responsible for the man, to say he loved him like a brother considering his own brother was standing right next to him.  
‘You care for him. More than friend.’ It was more a statement than question.

‘What is wrong with everyone, I’m not gay.’

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at John’s exasperated tone. ‘I never claimed you were, not exclusively, anyway.’

Throwing his hands in the air, he stalked away from the older Holmes muttering, ‘I give up.’

Mycroft waved as he departed Baker Street, leaving John fuming at having to defend his relationship with his friend. Why did everyone assume they were a couple? 

Well he supposed they were both always together. John hadn’t had a stable relationship that lasted more than a few weeks since he met Sherlock and he had never seen Sherlock in any kind of romantic scenario. They did live together, and they fought like an old married couple...maybe they were in a relationship more than he realised. Looking down at the pile of other mans clothing in his arms; John recognised he was even resorting to being his nursemaid.

Groaning, it was something to think about another time. Heading into the kitchen, he would try and get Sherlock to take a little soup and see if he could keep it down this time.

 

 

One week since Sherlock had first sneezed in the sitting room John entered his bedroom to see if he required anything while he went to the shop for groceries. Holmes was ghost like, his usual pallid form taking on a dark greyish appearance, skin pulled tight across his gaunt face. His eyes were heavy sunk and bruised and sweat covered his brow. 

John didn’t need to get his stethoscope to listen to his breathing, he could hear the wheeze and rattle from his friends chest from the door way.   
There was only one thing left to do. He called an ambulance.

 

 

‘Yes John, how can I help you?’ The phone had only rung once before Mycroft answered clipped and assuredly.

‘I need to talk to you-hang on, how did you know it was me?’

‘This is my private emergency number, only three people have it, my secretary is currently sitting in the room with me, my brother has never once rang me life and believe me, unlikely to do so. By my powers of deduction that leaves you, john.’ 

He could practically hear the smug grin stretching across Mycroft’s face. My, these Holmes’ enjoyed showing off their intellect.

‘Murdered my brother in his sleep yet? I assure you there will be very few who would mourn him; you may even be doing the world a service.’ His tone was light, no doubt still amused at him running around after an ill Sherlock.

‘Not yet, listen. I called to say we are in hospital. Sherlock is ill Mycroft, really ill. I had to bring him in.’

Mycroft’s genial tone dropped to a concerned whisper, ‘Where?’

He told the Government official which hospital they were at and a brief outline of what happened. Mycroft assured him that he would come straight away before hanging up abruptly.

 

 

John saw Mycroft’s tall and imposing form glide down the stark white hospital ward. Impeccably dressed, long coat slung over one forearm, umbrella swinging in hand, strutting along as if he could have owned the building and everything in it. 

He couldn’t quite explain it, but seeing Mycroft made him feel a little better. The trouble he and Sherlock got into over the last two years, he always made it go away, despite his pomp and arrogance and demanding nature he was useful. The older Holmes was a leader, an authority figure that, as a soldier, John could relate to. 

He could pass responsibility to him. He would follow Mycroft’s instructions and orders who would take charge of his brother and his care, and everything would return to normal. It would be alright. 

Sherlock would be alright. John had been telling himself that over and over for the last three hours since they arrived. But now, seeing Mycroft he believed it.

Both men crowded around the small window to Sherlock’s room. After he called Mycroft to let him know his brother was in hospital, John found that his friend had been moved from a ward to a private room.   
Instead of the usual traffic of staff, one very attentive doctor and nurse had spent a good deal of time with the patient. He had the sneaking feeling Mycroft had made some calls and his brother was now experiencing a much higher level of healthcare.

‘How is he?’ Mycroft’s tone was hushed and worried.

‘Weak. He has an infection in his chest and his lungs are full of fluid. He should be fine now they have him here and can have someone monitor him. He is on medication to remove the fluid and oxygen to help his breathing.’

The other man nodded slowly, deferring to his superior medical knowledge.

John was barely containing his anger; he had been so please to see someone else arrive here for Sherlock but now the situation was practically burning a hole in his gut. He pressed on, even as Mycroft stared blankly at the prone figure on the bed. ‘He over works himself. His body is run down, he hardly eats, he barely sleeps, no wonders this flu hit him so hard. No wonder it has completely floored him.’

‘He had never been one to do as he is told.’ Mycroft commented softly, nose almost pressed against the glass.

‘And you!’ John eventually rounded on him, trying not to yell in the hushed hospital corridor. ‘You are just as much to blame, never mind Sherlock doing it to himself. They are worried about his blood count, Mycroft. His iron is dangerously low.’

Bowing his head and closing his eyes, Mycroft ran a palm across his face, rubbing wearily. ‘I know, it is my fault.’ He sounded upset, as upset as John had ever heard him. The doctor hadn’t quite expected him to admit his failings so easily. Sherlock never did after all.

Mycroft looked up wearily, ‘He is anaemic, and he has been for years. His iron is low; he takes supplements and occasional injections.’

‘The blood you are taking?’

Mycroft only nodded, gaze drifting back into the room where Sherlock lay motionless and connected alarmingly to all manner of terrifying looking hospital equipment.  
‘How often do you take blood from him?’

He shrugged; John didn’t think he would answer. He was after all, asking some very personal questions that Sherlock had previously refused to tell him, but the older Holmes relented, ‘Every four weeks or so.’

‘Four weeks! Mycroft that is too much. You can only be a blood donor twice in one year, to give the body time to recover!’

Eyes darkened and flashed angrily, ‘I am aware of the Doctor. I do not take a pint of blood from Sherlock. What I actually drink is only the equivalent of a few mouthfuls, a few hundred millilitres-‘

Noticing the look on his face, Mycroft paused –‘but yes, it is too much I fear for just one person. It was just easier with him, us being related, he understood...’

‘You can’t keep doing it Mycroft, you are making him ill.’

’Don’t you think I know that! You think I enjoy it, I enjoy this? You think I want my brother lying in a hospital bed because of me?!’

Mycroft was yelling, his pale face contorted in rage as advanced, menacingly on John. All the quite probing, the smug insults, the black cars whisking you away at a moment’s notice, John had never feared Sherlock’s brother until that point, as he practically snarled at him, eyes bleeding to inky black, pale skin almost pearly and translucent. 

He took a healthy step back from the tall frame looming over him and that seemed to snap the older Holmes out of it, who appeared almost shocked at his uncharacteristic outburst of temper.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft smoothed his suit in place and ground his teeth as the silence stretched uncomfortably between them. He once again glanced towards the room where Sherlock lay; raven curls the only colour visible, a halo of black in a white surround of sheets and walls.

‘I will fix it, john.’


	19. The Most Indispensable Man In The Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part3: The Path To Damnation  
> Having stumbled upon Mycroft’s vampirism the revelation has left a strain on John and Sherlock’s friendship. The doctor tries to reconcile life with his friend and the after math of recent events. Unfortunately things are never easy, and he is about to become much more to Mycroft than simply his brother’s flat mate.

John was dozing on the couch when he heard the tell-tale shriek of Mrs Hudson from the bottom of the stairs announcing that Mycroft was here.

Groggily he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as the other man strolled through the sitting room door followed by their landlady.

‘Tea, dears?’

He looked at Mycroft, who was busy glancing out the window to the street below, making no indication whether he would like tea or not. He supposed that he couldn’t drink it either way but John would certainly like some since Mrs Hudson was being in an uncharacteristic ‘housekeeper’ mood, despite her usual protests of being no such thing. He suspected she was feeling terrible about Sherlock’s situation. Since the detective had been taken into hospital she had kept John happily stocked in food and drink and also practically cooked all his meals. He couldn’t remember the last time he was fed so well. 

‘Um, yes please Mrs Hudson,’ he mumbled, staring at Mycroft’s ridged back. 

She closed the sitting room door and hurried off to get the tea after a fleeting glance at the older Holmes. She looked as if she was about to ask a question then changed her mind. John knew she was worried about Sherlock, for all the complaining and grief she gave him she treated the man like a son. Their landlady had even went to visit him in the hospital but Sherlock being his usual infuriating self, sent her away in tears when she refused to smuggle in cigarettes for him.

John had also spent the last three days running back and forth between Baker Street and the hospital, making sure his friend had everything he needed and to see that he was doing ok. The detective was certainly on the mend but still ill and extremely weak. However he did seem improved enough to begin making the staffs lives a nightmare and John had a feeling that only Mycroft’s influence was preventing Sherlock being thrown out for sheer cheek and insolence.

Turning from the window, Mycroft sat heavily on the chair opposite the couch and John was shocked at his appearance. He looked almost as bad as his brother and considering that Holmes junior was currently lying in a hospital suffering all manner of ailments that was very bad indeed. The fading light from the window cast an unearthly glow around the vampire, his cheeks and eyes were hollow, lips dry, even his eyes were sunken and red rimmed. Skin, already deathly pale at the best of times, now had a greyish tinge, taking on an almost translucent quality.

‘Jesus, Mycroft, you look horrible.’

John commented with genuine concern but the other man’s tone was flippant.

‘Why thank you John, your flatter always warms my heart. The hazards of being undead, I’m sure.’

He must have made a face as the vampire rolled his eyes at him, an amused expression playing across his haggard features.

‘I have looked worse Doctor, believe me.’

He wondered if that were true. How could you look much worse than death warmed up sitting across from him at the moment? 

John remembered that Mycroft mentioned in their last meeting that he would try and visit his brother, so thought it best to change the subject.

‘Did you go and see Sherlock after all?’

‘Yes, he is improving and being as infuriatingly stubborn as usual. They caught him last night out of bed wandering the corridors. Apparently he was looking for his clothing and was going to get a taxi back to Baker Street.’

Groaning in exasperation, John fought not to bury his tired head in his hands, ‘He isn’t well enough to come home. The idiot doesn’t listen! A few more days I told him.’

‘His doctor thinks it may be a few weeks, his lungs apparently still do not sound good. They have taken too much abuse over the years-his drugs and cigarettes most likely- but they are confident of a full recovery. I have given orders they can strap him to the bed if he tries to leave again.’

A small chuckle escaped his lips but he caught sight of Mycroft’s stony expression. He was deadly serious! Oh Sherlock wouldn’t like that at all; John almost wished he had been there, just to see the expression on his face.

‘If Sherlock is too ill what are you going to do? No offence Mycroft but you looks like, er...’

‘Death?’ He offered with an ironic tone.

‘Well, yeah, you need to eat, drink, feed, um, whatever. You were counting on Sherlock and you have been put off for the last week with his flu, now he will be certainly be out of action for the next few weeks as well. How long since you drank any blood?’

Mycroft was intently studying the worn pattern on the chair, fiddling with the frayed fabric idly with long lean fingers. His voice was soft and distant; indicating that he did not really wish to discuss it but he finally offered a grudging response, ‘About five weeks. There are other…options.’

John didn’t like the sound of that. Just what kinds of options were available? And if regularly feeding off your brother to the point of anaemia was the best one, just how bad could those other options be?

‘What do you mean options, Mycroft? If you are going to go around and start flying through windows and jumping on people like Dracula…’

‘I assure you, no one is in danger from me. I don’t go around killing people, despite what you may believe.’

A little hurt, John pouted to an extent. Sure it was slightly creepy knowing what Mycroft was and exactly how he survived, but he didn’t think the man was dangerous, not really, and surely Sherlock wouldn’t allow his brother to be a monster in a very real sense?

‘I don’t believe that, I was just wondering if you were going to be ok.’

Laying his head back against the chair, Mycroft closed his eyes, talking to the ceiling in an offhand, detached way.

‘You would be surprised, John, how many people know about the existence of vampires. How many willing little victims there are out there who have watched too many movies and are happy to romanticise the acts. Even if there was no…willing donor, there are other means.’

‘Again, what do you mean ‘other means? I don’t like that phrase.’

The vampire smiled, not happily, before reaching into his inside suit jacket pocket and producing a small vial of clear liquid. 

‘Flunitrazepam.’

John’s mouth hung in shock. ‘Rohypnol! That’s disgusting.’

‘Think of the ease. A few drops in a drink at a bar or club, I have even done it in work.’

‘Work?!’

‘Who do you think supplies me with the drug? Oh don’t look so shocked at their callous nature. Her Majesty’s government evidently places more importance on my remaining alive than a few administration assistants losing a little blood.’

‘I-I’ John couldn’t form any sort of coherent response. To sit there and talk so casually about drugging someone for their own gain was...unbelievable. When Sherlock commented that his brother was the most indispensable man in the country, he clearly meant it, and it would seem a few liberties taken with the freedom of some citizens was a price they were willing to pay for Mycroft’s unique talents.

Come to think on it, Sherlock had drugged him more than once for a supposed experiment. Damn those Holmes’! This kind of behaviour clearly ran in the family.

‘I can assure you I don’t hurt them. They become dizzy, disorientated. Once asleep I take a little blood from an inconspicuous place and disappear.’ 

The tone was so conversational; Mycroft could have been talking about the fucking weather, John thought, and it disgusted him.

‘They wake up light-headed, a little dazed, no idea what happened obviously. They probably think that they got too drunk and passed out or perhaps were unwell and fainted if they happen to be in my office. I leave them none the wiser, a few mouthfuls less blood and perhaps a few red welts that they can dismiss as insect bites.’

‘Yeah how absurdly simple and painless.’ Voice like scalding fire and dripping in sarcasm, he glared at the older Holmes. John couldn’t believe Mycroft was seriously telling him there was nothing wrong with drugging people he met at bars or at work and stealing their blood.

‘No one notices this?!’

‘As I said, people are easily fooled, especially gullible and the less intelligent. I don’t do it often; you know I usually use Sherlock.’

Unable to quite fathom what he was hearing, a sudden uneasy thought crossed John’s mind. Was he being silly for wondering if Mycroft had done anything to him when he passed out in his office in Whitehall? Now all he could picture were small, scared interns summoned to the presence of practically the head of Government, being drugged and duped, and passing out on the floor. All the time with Mycroft’s probably fake simpering sympathy, ushered out the door with assurances of not to worry and take the rest of the day off.

‘Please tell me you didn’t-when I was-‘

The Government official only smirked; the briefest quirk of lips, his eyes sparkled mischievously.

‘Mycroft!’ John’s fist tightened beside him on the couch that man was going to get a punch in just a moment.

He held his hands up in a supplicant gesture, ‘I tease you doctor, and I assure you that I did nothing to you. You fainted, quite rightly, in my office and you left wholly unaccosted in the back of the car back to Baker Street.’

Ok so he hadn’t had any blood stolen from him personally, but John was still indignant on others behalf, ‘I still can’t believe you steal blood from people!’ 

He only received a weary shrug in response; Mycroft was unapologetic in his attitude. ‘I do not do that often, as I’ve said, Sherlock was my main source of...food. Anthea-‘

‘Anthea?’ Wait, this was all moving too fast for John. What about Anthea?

A look crossed the older man’s face, an internal conflict on whether to give more information than he really should, ‘Anthea is not alive either, John.’

‘Your kidding?!’

A small shake of head.’ No. I am not kidding. She has been my PA for nearly twenty years, almost as long as I have had my condition.’

‘I had no idea.’ He was stunned. He had asked her out on a date. If she agreed would she have been…on his neck…a small shudder threaded its way down his spine.

‘Well you are not the most observant man I have ever met. You had no idea about me either.’

John supposed Mycroft was right and he had nothing to say to that. He wondered just how many vampires he may have come across in his life and was completely oblivious.

‘So if you are both vampires and know each other well, then does that mean you and Anthea are...’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise, ‘No, well, that’s not to say we have never... but no, just because we are both vampires does not mean we are going to be together just for the sake of it.’

A small smile spread across his features at that revelation, ‘Yeah well, now you know what it is like when you all assume me and Sherlock are sleeping together just because we are flatmates. How do you like it?’  
Mycroft nodded in his direction, ‘Touché, doctor.’

He didn’t quite like the impressed look the other man was giving him, much like a pet that has performed a clever trick. Just because he wasn’t as bright as Sherlock, didn’t mean that he couldn’t come up with a good argument, on occasions.

‘Anthea provided assistance to me when I was first finding it difficult to adjust to my new life. She has been a vampire for much longer than you could guess. Anthea still looks young, she died in her twenties, I believe. Let’s just say she is not out of place in bars and nightclubs. Blood is slightly easier to get for her I think.’

‘What about you?’

‘Do I look like the kind of person who would blend in to a Goth club, John?’

A suddenly striking mental image of Mycroft dressed head to toe in black, with spiked hair, ripped black jeans and heavy black eyeliner filled his mind. He had to stifle a giggle but Mycroft’s sardonic look in his direction only made him laugh out loud instead. 

Eventually Holmes smirked, clearly knowing what John was thinking, but he was at least taking it lightly.

‘She did try, bless her, I was escorted to various fetish clubs. Oh they don’t think you are a real vampire but there are people who believe that they are indeed these creatures. The dress up in dark clothing and adorn themselves in gothic jewellery. They were fake dental fangs and cut partners or lovers with razor blades and drink their blood. They play, they pretend. They think they are cool and unique and part of an exclusive little club when they are merely humorous and an easy target for the true vampires.’

‘Like you, you mean.’

‘It is a means to stay alive one supposes. There are always willing partners, they think my teeth are fake or have been altered surgically. As long as I don’t show them the eyes or give myself away too much they are none the wiser. It is all fun and eroticism, mixed up in blood and sex and music.’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘This is London, John, I dare say however weird your fetish, you would find someone that will cater to your needs. Always willing victims and there are always others happy to exploit them.’  
‘Makes me wonder what you have seen.’

‘Let’s just say I have witnessed things that make the irrefutable Miss Adler seem tame.’

On second thought, John didn’t want to know. Reliving Adler and Sherlock’s strange relationship was not something he wanted to do again. He was not sure he or Sherlock would survive. Just what had it been about that woman, he had always wondered?

‘I am still having a hard time imagining you surrounded by people in leather and PVC, in gimp masks and breathing through straws.’

With a theatrical sight the Government official commented, ‘It is not my first choice, believe me.’ However John was still grinning at the other man’s discomfort.

‘It’s not funny, Doctor,’ Mycroft tried to don his usual stern demeanour but he smiled despite himself.

Eventually, the humour in the situation died. John was still supremely uncomfortable at what the vampire classed as ok to do to people. But at the moment he couldn’t think of anything better to suggest. Mycroft, however, changed subject, ‘You are going to visit Sherlock later, John?’

He hesitated and the other man picked up on it instantly.

‘Yes, I will visit him later.’

‘Problem?’

‘It is just that every time I go, Sherlock wants me to bring him home. It is worse than a child and I feel guilty leaving him.’

‘I can’t imagine he is having fun in there. I will try and go see him tomorrow again, John, put an end to his childishness but I doubt I will help, he has yet to listen to a word I have said in thirty years.’

With that, Mycroft rose and headed for the sitting room door. He was just sliding into his long black coat when John had an unpleasantly practical thought.


	20. An Invitation To Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part3: The Path To Damnation  
> Having stumbled upon Mycroft’s vampirism the revelation has left a strain on John and Sherlock’s friendship. The doctor tries to reconcile life with his friend and the after math of recent events. Unfortunately things are never easy, and he is about to become much more to Mycroft than simply his brother’s flat mate.

‘Um…Mycroft?’ 

Holmes was almost at the door, fixing the collar of his coat as he went. John sat facing ahead at the pattered Baker Street wall and resolutely kept on staring ahead, knowing that if he looked at the man then he may not go through with it. He could practically feel Mycroft stop and turn to face him.

‘What if-what if you took blood from me instead?’

Silence. It was quite eerie, really.

After a few moments John had no choice but to turn, he wasn’t sure Mycroft was even still in the room, the man was so quiet and unmoving.

As their eyes met he could see that Mycroft was regarding him with a curious expression, one that he couldn’t quite place. Cool grey eyes racked over his still form, perched tensely on the edge of the couch.

Finally he bit out a low, husky, ‘I beg your pardon?’ There was an edge of something in the vampire’s voice, perhaps threat or anger. Too late, John realised, perhaps he wasn’t pleased with the suggestion. Maybe he had over stepped some boundary? John ploughed onwards, regardless.

‘If I agreed, you could just as easily take blood from me as Sherlock, right? It doesn’t matter who you take it from as long as you are fed.’

‘No.’ One word was hissed through teeth with surprising force.

‘No you don’t want my blood or no it makes a difference?’ He was trying to keep his tone light but also not confrontational or mocking. Mycroft’s stillness and voice were making him a little uneasy.

‘It would be unwise of me to drink your blood. No. I will not.’

John swallowed hard and persisted, ‘But, well, you can’t take it from your brother right now, he is ill and keeping on taking as much as you are is only going to keep making him ill again.’

‘I still don’t think it would be wise.’

‘Why not?’

Mycroft seemed to mull it over, choosing his words very carefully. ‘You are my brother’s friend. He is very protective of you, doctor; I can only imagine the grief I would receive if he knew I was feeding from you.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it would bother him. He feeds you and, well, your brother is one to talk! He punched me once you know and he also drugged me. Sherlock isn’t really one to issue directives regarding the social conformities of friendship.’

Examining the tip of his umbrella, as if it were infinitely more interesting than the man in front of him, Mycroft continued,

‘But that is Sherlock’s way. I can tell you that he would not be happy at my abuse of you, John. You are his. He detests my interference in his life, he puts up with me because he has to. Sherlock would not be happy if I toyed with his things.’

‘Things?! I am not a ‘thing’ and I am not your brother’s property. I’m lucky if he calls me his friend!’

Rolling his eyes, the Government official threw himself back into the armchair a little over theatrically. For an instant John could see the stubborn, agitated, almost what he would call ‘stroppy teenage’ he often saw in Sherlock. Rarely did he see the similarities in the Holmes brothers. To John, they always seemed so different, both in appearance and manner. Only the sharp intellect was a constant. Right at that moment though, Mycroft was a petulant mirror image of his brother and it caused him to smile just a little. 

‘You do not see it? My brother loves you. Whether he wishes you more than a friend, you will need to take that up with him.’

‘For the last time we are not-‘ John could feel the frustration and anger well up again at the implication but Mycroft held up a hand to silence his impending outburst. 

‘My brother has had a more meaningful relationship with you in the last two years than I have ever seen him from in the thirty five years he has been alive. You are both simultaneously good and bad for one another. You play to his ego, his showmanship, you fawn over him. Quite rightly the mere mortal you are, is impressed with his intelligence and his reasoning. But you question him, John. You attempt to block his rudeness, his aggressiveness, his self-destructing streak and more importantly, he lets you. Sherlock lets you be there when he will not let me. He lets you chid him and blog about his cases. Essentially he gives you lease and leeway in his life.’

‘I am his friend.’ The line was becoming tired, even to John’s ears.

‘Sherlock may not even realise himself what you have. My brother understands the chemical ties of love and sex but the finer points of relationships escape him; the compromise, the trust, the emotional intimacy. You seem to be winning him around.’

‘How many times do I need to keep telling people that we are just friends?’

‘And so you will stay. As I have said he will not pine for you, doctor, Sherlock has made a place for you in his life. You are essentially his partner, whether you have sex or not is up to you. If you show no interest then he will show none. He may have considered it certainly; it is not the act itself. I do not believe that sex is essentially intimate for him, it’s a biological function that is enjoyable, it stimulates endorphins, relieves stress and tension.’

He must have looked dubious. Sherlock was just a little…odd, John always thought. Emotionally repressed, as he liked to think on it. He was certain a fully qualified psychiatrist would be able to give Sherlock’s attitude some sort of scientific classification if given the chance.

‘You believe that my brother doesn’t understand or is oblivious? Miss Hooper is all I am saying. He understands perfectly. But he neither needs nor wants to hold someone’s hand whilst walking down the street or have a romantic candle lit dinner for two. If he has an itch then Sherlock will scratch it, but there is no intimacy there, that is separate. You have the closest thing to a normal relationship with him.’

‘He’s not-w-with Molly!’

‘Of course not. I have warned him off the girl.’ Mycroft caught John’s expression and elaborated, ‘For her own good. She thinks she loves him and he would sleep with her and leave it at that. Sherlock would destroy her because partly he isn’t interested and secondly, it is oblivious to him why you would associate it with caring. Normal social etiquette is, as he calls it, boring. Sex is not what attracts my brother, apparently that would be wounded army doctors and bisexual dominatrix’s.’

Sighing Mycroft murmured, ‘I have given up trying to fathom my brother and his heart a long time ago.’

John couldn’t quite believe he was having a conversation about Sherlock’s sexual orientation with his brother. It was unexpected and wholly unwarranted. The problem with he and his friend’s relationship was something that would need to be ruminated on another time, there was more pressing matters currently.

‘But you are going to need to take blood from someone?’

‘Yes, ‘ Mycroft agreed reluctantly and not like he was wholly happy with the prospect.

‘You can’t have Sherlock right now.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Then I would feel better if you took it from me.’

‘Really?’ Contempt dripped from every utterance of the vampire but John decided he had to try.

‘Well at least I am consenting. I can’t have you leave here, Mycroft, in all good conscious, knowing that you are going out to practically date rape someone.’

Holmes face hardened, steely gaze narrowing. ‘I. Do. Not.’

‘There isn’t exactly consent there, Mycroft.’

‘I do not touch anyone uninvited, doctor; if I were you then I would refrain from such accusations. I do not molest people while they are unconscious. If I do have sex then they are alert, conscious and entirely able to consent.’

‘You don’t see the parallel, Mycroft? You are stealing their blood while they are knocked unconscious. It is not different than if you were stealing sex.’

Moving in a blur of speed, his lined and wearied face was suddenly only inches from his as John was thrown back further onto the couch. Trapped in his embrace as Mycroft’s arms rested against the back of the couch just beside his head. His eyes were cool, a light blue of frosted winter sky, but his face was a mask of snarling rage, his nose wrinkled, fangs protruding slightly below his lip line.

‘Trust me doctor I know the difference. I may not enjoy being what I am or doing what I have to do but I would not-I have not-I would not take anyone without their permission, I would not rape anyone, I-‘

He seemed genuinely incensed and distresses, his usually eloquent speech a stuttering mess. John swallowed and took a deep breath. Personally he didn’t see much of a difference but he thought it best to shut up about the topic given how tetchy Mycroft was about it.

‘Listen, Mycroft-‘he tried a soothing tone, hoping he wasn’t about to have his head ripped off ‘-I’m sorry I suggested you were a…anyway, I just thought you know, rather than forcing some unsuspecting bystander you could take it from someone willing.’

‘I will find someone willing.’

With that the sitting room door burst open and Mrs Hudson tottered in, holding a tray laden with tea and cakes. John had forgotten all about the landlady and the fact he had asked for tea.

She froze in the doorway, no doubt taking in the unusual sight of him practically sprawled against the back of the couch and Mycroft’s looming and menacing form hunched over him. He hoped to god that it didn’t look as intimate as it now felt but then again, John didn’t know how he was going to explain an argument or the reasoning to her either.

Mrs Hudson’s face fell, a mask of confusion and upset.

In the most placating tone, Mycroft straightened and said in her direction, ‘Just a minor disagreement between me and the doctor, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for the tea.’

Taking the tray from her hands, he quickly ushered her out the sitting room, despite her mumbling protests. Mycroft closed the door sharply behind her and turned, placing the tray on the coffee table. 

John noticed a slightly long lingering look at the tea and cake. He wondered if Mycroft missed it. Food and drink. Twenty years without having the taste of delicious food must be some form of torture. But he wasn’t going to be put off. Not when he knew he was right and had a point to make.

John stood, placing him almost toe to toe with the other man. Mycroft naturally loomed over him, using his considerable height to a threatening advantage.

‘Drugging them isn’t willing and as much as I would find it amusing to watch you trawl some tragic Goth bar looking for someone to drink from, I’m, er, offering.’

Stooping lower until their eyes were almost level, John fought not to back away from the man in front of him. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock’s brother intimidate him, no matter how unearthly he seemed to be at the moment.

‘Are you willing to risk my brother’s…displeasure?’ Mycroft’s breath blew like a warm wind over his face; the strong smell of mint hit him along with an underlying tang of something he recognised being an army doctor. Blood. Unhappily, he now knew why Mycroft was so fond of mints. 

Tired of arguing about something he could easily fix, John lost his patience, snapping ‘Are you hungry or not?’

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. ‘On your head be it then, doctor.’


	21. The First Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part3: The Path To Damnation  
> Having stumbled upon Mycroft’s vampirism the revelation has left a strain on John and Sherlock’s friendship. The doctor tries to reconcile life with his friend and the after math of recent events. Unfortunately things are never easy, and he is about to become much more to Mycroft than simply his brother’s flat mate.

Mycroft left Baker Street mid-afternoon, stating that he had business to conclude. He would return later this evening and see if John could stomach-his choice of words, my Mycroft did think he was amusing- going ahead with his offer.

So John spent the afternoon at the hospital visiting Sherlock, in an attempt to take his mind off what he would be doing later. Something told him to keep quiet for the moment about the arrangement. He had made it to spare his friend but the older Holmes was right, it was unlikely his Sherlock would take the news well. John knew how much the man hated anyone interfering in his life or discussing personal issues. 

While he couldn’t hide it forever, John wanted to wait until it was over and done with so that there would be nothing Sherlock could do about it. He had an uneasy feeling that he was simply making excuses and perhaps deluding himself, but at least Sherlock would be in better health and back at home before he started an argument.

During the hospital visit Sherlock was his usual arrogant self and seemed to be making everyone around him miserable. True to his nature, he did not listen to a word the doctors said unless John glanced over his medical chart and proclaimed their judgement sound. He was equally flattered and frustrated with his friend’s level of trust in his medical expertise.

Molly and Lestrade had apparently visited earlier according to Sherlock, who was in a foul mood but at least looking a little healthier. Lestrade had obviously taken pity on him and smuggled in a few nicotine patches as Sherlock currently had two stuck on one arm and a third on the other.

Evidently when bored and having nothing to do, Holmes turned his deductive reasoning on the nearest innocent bystander. John had sat for over an hour and listened to a running commentary on the various personal lives of the staff. Eventually he had enough of one poor doctor’s character assassination and told Sherlock, in no uncertain circumstances, to shut up.

 

 

Back at Baker Street, John ate a nervous dinner alone. Just what had he agreed to? Now that he had time to truly think on the situation, it was making him feel slightly uncomfortable. Donating blood was one thing but letting someone bite you and drink it was something else entirely.

Darkness fell outside as he waited for Mycroft to return. Feeling uneasy, butterflies fluttered within his stomach at every moment. He felt apprehensive; the nervous anticipation reminded him of a trip to the dentist.   
Fidgeting, John tried to read the paper, watch a little TV. Each activity never holding his thought for more than a few minutes.

God! What was he thinking? He practically moaned as he hid his face in his hands. Friendship was one thing but what had possessed him to offer to feed Mycroft instead of Sherlock? He wondered if he could change his mind. What could Mycroft do, hold him down? He could call the older Holmes, say he changed his mind and leave it at that. It would be so easy over the telephone; he would even have to face him. It was no concern of his anyway what Mycroft ate. Neither Sherlock nor his brother was his personal responsibility. Mycroft could just go pick a victim from somewhere else.

Deciding he was being a coward, John did not, in fact, call Mycroft to cancel. 

The vampire arrived later than expected; around 11pm. By that point he had been waiting in nervous anticipation for hours and had worked himself up into a terrible state. John had changed his shirt three times; unsure as exactly what one wears to blood lettering, however Mycroft was still in he same clothes as this morning. It would appear the British government kept long and unsociable hours.

As the Government official strolled into the Baker street sitting room his eyebrows rose at John’s agitated state. 

The man’s lips quirked ever so slightly. ‘You seem…tense doctor.’ It was almost a purr and John swallowed hard.

‘A little.’ He lied as he wiped sweaty palms on the legs of his jeans. Mycroft caught the movement with a flick of eyes and smiled. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘I know your not.’ That was said with a little too much force, he didn’t even convince himself.

Realising both of them were standing, military straight, in the middle of the sitting room floor he rolled his shoulders and tried to relax. He was trying to force ease into the situation and it was only all the more awkward.

‘So, ugh, how do you want to do this?’

Mycroft removed his long woollen outer coat, and then slowly unbuttoned his suit jacket one handed. Both were thrown across the back of the fireplace chair. Left standing in stark white shirt sleeves John half expected him to start rolling them up.

A few long legged strides and suddenly Mycroft was right in front of him. John had to tilt his head upward and fought not to take a step back at the invasion of his personal space. Usually you could feel warmth radiate off another body that was so close, a hum of energy from living being. From Mycroft there was nothing. There wasn’t even a sound or breathing. No feeling of eyes watching you. If he hadn’t been standing staring at him, John would have no idea that he was there.

‘Pick a body part.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

Mycroft smirked. The bastard was enjoying this!

‘Pick a body part.’

‘Excuse me?’ His voice was rising alarmingly high and he could hear it. Cursing the small quaver in his voice he was going to have to think long and hard for a way to make Mycroft pay for being a git.

‘To bite, John. It is best to pick an area that will be unseen. The bite will heal quicker than a normal human one. It should be completely gone by 48 hours however just in case; you do not wish awkward questions.’  
Ok, logical he supposed. It didn’t make him feel any more comfortable though. ‘Er, where does Sherlock normally go for?’

‘I usually take it from his neck, more towards the collarbone and shoulder as anything higher would be visible from his shirt collar. Or alternatively, if you wish to remove your shirt, the bend in the forearm.’

Considering his options with difficulty, well where exactly you would chose to have a body part bitten? John settled for opening the first few buttons of his shirt collar to expose his neck. Mycroft’s gaze followed the flash of pale flesh downward and it was a little unnerving but he tugged on the open shirt, pulling it to one side to reveal a pale expanse of shoulder.

Holmes leaned forward slowly and John cringed, holding his breath and shutting his eyes tight fighting back the natural urge to scream and run away. 

Nothing happened. He opened his eyes a tiny crack to find Mycroft’s highly amused expression inches from his face; he looked as if he was fighting very hard not to laugh.

‘Relax John; I have been reliably informed it does hurt much after the initial bite. And please remember to breath.’

Not realising he was holding his breath, a great whoosh of air from his lungs as he took a deep breath to stead himself. He could do it. He could do this. It was only a little blood he kept telling himself. Yeah, a little voice at the back of his head piped up, a little blood that someone else was drinking like a fine wine.

Again, the vampire made his decent and he braced for the feeling of teeth tearing flesh. John could feel a warm breath blow across his skin, tickling the fine hairs and causing goosebumps to run down his arms. Mycroft’s cheek brushed his; an expensive musky aftershave filled his nostrils and cloyed the back of this throat. Opening his eyes a fraction, John could see the dark auburn, neatly trimmed hairline of the man as Mycroft’s head fitted into the crook of his neck, lips almost brushing the skin. 

Abruptly, the vampire pulled back. John took a deep breath, a tension he hadn’t realised in his shoulders eased.

‘This wont work, you are too short.’

‘Hey! I get enough of that from your brother.’

Rolling his eyes, he indicated him to sit, ‘I am taller than Sherlock, while it is doable with him standing, I am going to pull a muscle if I need to bend over to your height.’

With much reluctance and ill grace, John eventually sat on the couch murmuring under his breath about Holmes’s simply being abnormally tall. 

Perching on the edge of the sofa, he was still nervous, rubbing his hands back and forcing in a comforting gesture on his knees. The tall Holmes frame folded next to him, his long lean body more lounging than sitting, he pressed along the full side of his and John fought not to scoot away. 

Pulling the collar of his shirt down further, exposing his neck and right shoulder, Mycroft turned him slightly so that John’s back was almost flush against his chest. He was even more nervous now that he couldn’t see the other man’s face and couldn’t help imagining scenes from all those horror movies as a giant looming bat hovering behind him, fangs drawn and ready to strike.

‘Relax John, it is just an easier position.’ The vampire’s voice was soft behind him, no doubt trying to be reassuring but it only felt far too intimate.

‘I said relax, you are panicking too much. I can hear to heart thundering in your chest and I can almost taste your fear, your delicate pulse fluttering against your skin.’

John nearly jumped out his skin as dry lips brushed the junction of his neck and shoulder. Holding his breath, he knew his heart was hammering in his chest, he didn’t need Mycroft to tell him but the vampire could actually...feel that? Hear it?

‘How can I relax when you keep saying creepy vampire shit like that?!’

A deep chuckle behind him. ‘My apologies. However this…‘creepy vampire shit’ does come in handy. You sweat when you lie, when you are excited or afraid or even aroused. Your heart beats faster, your pulse increases, speeding fresh warm blood around your body. The smell people give off is quite remarkable.’

‘Mycroft-‘

‘-yes?’

‘You are still being creepy.’

‘I shall endeavour to refrain.’

He struck quickly and without warning and John winced, his teeth grinding together as Mycroft’s warm mouth clamped down on the junction between his neck and shoulder. John, despite training as a doctor of medicine, was never overly fond of needles, yet he had received several anti viral injections before his platoon was posted to Afghanistan. This was like getting them all in the one go as the vampire’s needle like fangs punctured his skin.

His initial wriggling in shock and surprise only caused Mycroft to instinctively tighten his hold around him. John now had a distinct feeling of being trapped and fought not to overly panic. One of Holmes hands rested on his waist while the other had snuck around his other side, fingers splayed across his stomach and pinning his arm to the side. Mycroft had effectively wrapped him in an embrace and he wasn’t entirely sure he could get out if he wanted to.

As quickly as it had come, a tension he hadn’t realised was there seemed to abate, his body sank from his stiff formal posture and his back brushed against the front of Mycroft’s chest, curving into him. He could feel the vampire’s mouth, lips latched onto his skin, tongue drawing over the surface, lapping gently. 

It wasn’t so bad, really, after the initial bite.

An unexpected felling washed over him. The movement of Mycroft’s mouth and tongue was quite rhythmic now he thought on it, almost…sensual. Was it just his imagination or was he getting warmer? It was Mycroft, he was actually getting warmer behind him. His hands, even through the layers of clothing, now felt almost normal, warm and alive. Mycroft had been cool to the touch but now he felt like any other person.

A shiver ran down John’s spine and it only served to rub his body further along the man behind him. A surprisingly forceful suck from the vampire and all of a sudden John thought he felt his mouth somewhere else entirely…oh god. He could feel it. The steady rhythmic ponding of his heart, beating and fluttering under Mycroft’s lips. His pulse reverberated through his body and John had never been aware of his own heartbeat so strongly. Echoing in his stomach and much lower in his abdomen, every suck, every lick, every bite was like a caress down his body and he could swear at this moment the nerve ends in his neck were directly connected to his groin.

He gave a little moan, he didn’t even realise it escaped his lips at first and had nothing to do with pain. It caused Mycroft to pull back abruptly, startled. John tried to focus; his eyelids were heavy and his mind foggy. John had a strange desire to tell him not to stop, to bite him again, drink his blood, and put those soft lips on his body. 

Shaking himself as if waking from a hazy and surreal dream he could see Holmes shocked and slightly guilty expression. He now had a rather healthy glow, his skin, although still pale, had undertones and hews of pink and gold rather than grey and blue as previously. His lips were west and rosy; John caught the smallest smear of blood across the bottom lip which quickly disappeared as Mycroft’s tongue darted out to capture it.

The voice was slightly hoarse, heavy with something that John didn’t want to think about. Emotion? Excitement? 

‘My apologies John, perhaps I over indulged myself.’

His gaze shifted quickly away, awkwardly looking anywhere but in John’s eyes and pulled his body back so that he was no longer cradling John against him. 

As he shifted in his position on the couch, john fought back an expletive as the fabric of his jeans brushed across his groin, highlighting his current state of arousal. 

Fucking hell just what had happened to him? He was only supposed to be feeding Mycroft blood, instead he had felt the most wonderful sensation as teeth sank into skin and the vampire’s mouth worked over him. A wave of pleasure had coursed through his veins and was responsible for the current erection straining against his clothing.

John hoped to god that Mycroft hadn’t noticed. What the hell would he think of him? Shifting even more, he tried to position himself to hide his lap and trusted that he wouldn’t need to stand in the next few minutes. It was going to be very awkward.

Just as John moved, Mycroft turned back towards him, gaze fixing on his lap and traveling oh so slowly back up his body until their eyes met. He had been caught. John knew from the look on his face that Mycroft had noticed his current excited predicament and he could feel a blush spread across his cheeks as his gaze met the intense bright blue one. 

Fuck.


	22. Do You Play With All Your Food?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3: The path to damnation  
> Summary: Having stumbled upon Mycroft’s vampirism the revelation has left a strain on John and Sherlock’s friendship. The doctor tries to reconcile life with his friend and the after math of recent events. Unfortunately things are never easy and he is about to become more to Mycroft than his brother’s flat mate.

John steeled himself for the utter embarrassment of facing Mycroft, who would undoubtedly be able to tell his currently highly aroused state. What had Sherlock said before? That the bite could feel somewhat pleasurable after the initial pain? Pleasurable didn’t quite cover it in John’s opinion. 

The urgency to feel the other mans lips on him burned all the way through his body and was currently pulsing through a very pronounced member of his anatomy. The look Mycroft was currently giving him did not help. His piercing gaze lingered over every inch of expose skin, brushing the tented crotch of his trousers before slowly and insolently dragging them up his torso. John could practically feel his scrutiny like a firm caress.

He wondered if that is what it felt like for the vampire too. Was drinking blood more than sustenance? Did it do more than keep him fed and alive? 

There was connection there, during such an intimate act, John had felt it. It crashed through his body and turned him on so completely, even although he had never had a single sexual thought about Sherlock’s brother in all the time he had known him.

Mycroft moved with an overwhelmingly elegant speed, settling his warm weight between John’s legs. The mouth that had so eagerly drained blood from his neck was working as equally feverishly on his own lips; nipping, licking, kissing. 

He didn’t know quite what had come over him or why he readily accepted Mycroft pushing him back against the cushions, lips crashing against his, but John found that he couldn’t quite stop himself. The wave of pleasure running through his body from the feeding demanded attention and he had to fight not to yelp as long dexterous digits pressed again the crotch of his trousers.

Whatever Mycroft had done to his neck, he was now doing to his mouth, tongue invading his and dancing enticingly with his own. John was dimly aware that what he could taste was blood, his own blood. The sweet metallic tang from the vampire’s lips invaded his senses but was soon lost in the probing, the caressing, and the press of a firm suited body against his.

His hands skimmed across starched shirt sleeves, eventually resting on the smooth silk back of Mycroft’s waistcoat. Fingers scratched at the fabric as he was pushed further into the soft sofa pillows with Mycroft’s body barely giving him room to wiggle or even breath.

This was new to John; the slightly firmer lips, the overpowering musky tang of aftershave and not perfume assaulting his senses, the slight scrape of developing stubble across his jaw, even the firm pressure of the other man’s erection pushing into his hip were all unfamiliar sensations. However the government official seemed more than comfortable and appeared to know exactly what he was doing.

John could finally draw a deep shaking breath as the other man’s lips left his, but only briefly, instead trailing a fiery line of sensation across his jaw and down his neck. Lingering at the wound on his neck, Holmes drew his tongue over it in kitten like licks, causing John to buck and writhe under him in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

Rendered speechless and only able to cry out the basest of moans, John could only mumble incoherently in vague encouragement as Mycroft’s mouth continued south. Skimming over bare skin, he deftly unbuttoned the rest of his shirt as he went. The shirt was quickly un-tucked from his jeans and flung open, serving as a frame from his pale lean chest. John always thought he was pale but lying here with Mycroft’s alabaster hands caressing him he seemed positively bronzed. He had never thought he was a particularly attractive man, he had his fair share of lovers but either modesty or realism concluded that he wasn’t overly attractive. Not the way Sherlock was viewed with his sculpted face, boyish grin and commanding height, but the penetratingly heated look Mycroft was giving his exposed chest and torso was making John blush just a little. 

Pressure building in his groin was becoming unbearable as Mycroft’s body slid down the front of his, brushing his hardened cock through his jeans with every small movement. The aquiline Holmes nose brushed his collar and trailed down his chest with each reverent kiss. Fingers brushed the hair on his chest, stroking gently as the other man’s lips explored and John was left in a state of desperate need. Need for more. Need for more…anything.

He gave a small cry as Mycroft’s mouth clamped around his right pectoral muscle and he bit down. Hard. 

Wincing in pain, John nearly wriggled away but the vampire pulled back, continuing downwards across his stomach pausing only to blow a breath of cool air across his belly button. He could see a small smear of blood across his nipple where he had been bitten and the slight flash of red coating Mycroft’s pouting lips.

Reaching the edge of his jeans, Mycroft teased playfully along the waistband. Kissing a path along the line of his hips, occasionally dipping his tongue lower, tasting the skin just beneath. Bright blue eyes rolled up to look up the length of his body fixing John with a deadly intimate glare as he unsnapped the top most button exposing a small triangle of deep blue boxers.

John swallowed hard wondering what he was even doing even as his treacherous body subconsciously and eagerly bucked under the government official, pushing his groin more tantalisingly in his face.  
His fingers tangled in slick auburn locks as he pulled Mycroft up for another heated kiss.

Groaning and biting down purposely on the other man’s tongue, John gasped as his hand unzipped his jeans and slid into the clothing. Palming him through his boxers, Mycroft began a slow, teasing rub, squeezing him gently through the fabric.

Throwing his head back against the cushions, he allowed himself to get lost in the wave of sensation as Mycroft sucked on his bottom lip while teasing his firm erection. Masturbating was all very well and good, John thought, but there was nothing like the feeling of another person’s touch on your body, exploring, teasing, dragging out sensation until the ultimate ecstasy.

The shock of skin on skin was almost too much. John cried out as Holmes hand dipped further; he had wriggled between the layers of clothing, sliding into his underwear. The pace was torturously tormenting as Mycroft slowly teased his foreskin up and over, creating just a little friction and smearing the wetness from a few drops of pre-cum across the head. John’s body curled in on itself, trying to wrap around the other man’s fist like a happy cat being stroked.

Skimming downward, Mycroft was soon kneeling between Johns spread legs. He watched as the government official loosened his tie, discarding it behind him, along with the first few buttons of his shirt. He caught a glimpse of chest hair the same colour as his head just peaking over the top of the starched white shirt. The sensuality of the movement and impact of what they were doing struck John as Mycroft opened the first few buttons of his jeans, hooked his thumbs into the waistband and tugged downwards before he could protest or form a coherent thought.

The cooler air assaulted his bare skin as his bare backside rubbed along the sofa fabric. Somehow the vampire had deftly removed not only John’s jeans but underwear along with it. Wriggling, he could only squirm and moan as gentle open mouthed kisses were placed along his inner thigh. Mycroft nipped the skin playfully as John’s fingers balled into he soft furnishing under him at the sensation.   
He couldn’t bear it, he had to look away as the length of his hard cock disappeared into the other man’s mouth and his whole brain seemed to shut down.

 

 

They had made it to bed at some point but his mind seemed to have missed several key steps along the way. All he could feel were warm hands caressing his body, lips skimming bare skin, Mycroft’s tongue sweeping his mouth, earlobe, even the underside of his cock, in unimaginably pleasurable ways. He had stayed resolutely clothed even as more and more of John’s skin was exposed. It was an interesting sensation to be naked under the man, rubbing himself against the soft suit fabric. His first orgasm had come from the talented actions of Mycroft’s mouth but he had been quickly stimulated again under his expert caress. He soon found himself writhing on the bed, fisting the covers under him and crying out as Holmes long elegant fingers squeezed and slipped and twirled over him. He came around Mycroft’s wonderfully expressive hand, ejaculate covering his lower stomach which inevitably rubbed into Mycroft’s exquisite clothing. His look was far from amused.

It was feeling a little unfair to John. Mycroft shrugged off any attempt at his own exploration, the man wasn’t even undressed. Given the current status of not being alive, John would have thought, perhaps, that Mycroft couldn’t, well…but there seemed nothing wrong with the vampire’s functionality. It was definitely a firm cock that pressed into him as his body covered his.

Typical of a Holmes, he thought, to prefer to be in control. Mycroft seemed like someone who wouldn’t lie back and allow someone else to do what they wanted. He took what he wanted from John’s body but other than blood, right now, he couldn’t see what he was getting out of it.

After much insistence and manoeuvring, he eventually wrestled Mycroft out of his belt. His attempt to get him out of his suit was thwarted by the truly complicated arrangement of clothing. Managing to unbutton the dark navy waistcoat his vision was met by a pair of red braces underneath. 

Popping the first button on Mycroft’s trousers he managed to wiggle the zip down. Any attempt to tug his shirt tails from trousers was met with firm resistance.

With a frustrated sigh John glanced up at the man smirking down at him as his hands rested on his slender hips trying to pull the shirt up. ‘What the fuck is wrong with this?’

Mycroft gave a low chuckle. ‘The shirt is buttoned in place.’

‘Buttoned? You mean fastened inside your trousers?’

‘It makes the fabric lie smooth.’

‘Who the hell has clothing this complicated?!’

Mycroft only smirked, amused at Johns exasperation.

‘Please tell me you own normal clothing. Trainers? T-shirts? Jeans?’

With a slightly disgusted look the vampire only raised one perfect eyebrow. John took that as a no. He couldn’t’ wear a suit twenty four hours a day, surely?

Giving up on trying getting him naked, he eventually loosened enough fabric to ease Mycroft out the fly of his suit trousers.

Mycroft ground into the front of his body, his newly free erection almost trapped between their bodies as their lips joined. His tongue prodded and probed threatening to hamper John’s breathing with its intensity. John wriggled a hand between them, delighting in Mycroft’s small moan into his mouth as his fist wrapped around him. It shouldn’t be difficult to bring the other man to climax, he thought to himself. He was after all, a guy, and John knew how to get himself off. He might never have had sex with another man but he supposed it would be easy enough to extrapolate from personal experience.

Mycroft’s lip buried against his neck, body bucking on top of him as his hand wrapped around his hard cock, increasing pressure and movement with each stroke. 

Kissing him forcefully on the lips, Holmes shuddered and stilled above him, back arching. His hips that had been eagerly thrusting into his hand stilled and he pulled back with a final lingering kiss, sucking in John's bottom lip.

John could see his unfocused expression and the erection under him was softening. It would appear Mycroft had cum and he had expected to be covered in the evidence of that orgasm. There was nothing.   
Panting slightly Mycroft licked his lips, pulling away from the warmth of John’s body to look him in the eye. He must have seen the confusion on his face as he glanced down the length of their bodies, hand still wrapped around a very intimate area.

He cleared his throat, lips only inches away from his. Mycroft’s gaze shifted, he wouldn’t meet John’s eyes.

‘I am dead, John. My body does not produce semen.’

Oh. Right. Well, you learn something new every day and since he found out that Holmes senior was a vampire there was a whole host of fun facts he was now learning. Although, on reflection, John thought he could have done without some of them. This was probably one of those.

‘But you still…uh, cum, right.’

Mycroft nodded slowly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed in discomfort.

‘So, uh, how do you…’

John trailed off, not quite knowing how to word his question. It was absurd considering he was naked, under another partially naked man who had just got him off. Several times. He might as well just come right out and ask.

‘So if you are dead how can you get it up?’

The vampire rolled his eyes, ‘You mean how can I maintain an erection?’

‘Uh, yeah.’

He managed to shrug, despite their positioning. ‘It is all about blood pressure I suppose. I drink blood and the fresh warm blood coursing through me allows me to ‘get it up’ as you so delicately put it.’

From his tone, Mycroft was at least teasing him so he didn’t feel quite as bad for asking but this was in danger of fast becoming awkward. John realised he had still been idly stroking the man lying on top of him.

‘So to do this again, then you-‘

‘Would need more blood. Yes.’

He wriggled down further under Mycroft, meeting the man’s beautifully piercing blue gaze. John indicated the mark on his neck that the vampire had made earlier, ‘Go for it.’

Both Mycroft’s eyebrows rose alarmingly. ‘You are sure?’ His tone was hesitant yet seemingly excited all at once.

Nodding, John braced himself as Mycroft’s eyes bled black and fangs extended to his collar.

 

 

He awoke, naked and in a tangle of sheets. His bedroom was empty with no sign of any unusual disturbance. 

Mycroft was gone. John hadn’t even heard him leave.

He winced as he rolled over, trying to check the time from the clock on the bedside table. Everything hurt; every muscle ached like it did years ago on his first day of training when he joined the army.

Managing to roll onto his back, he found muscles he didn’t even know he had. John fought back a gasp as the rumpled white sheets slid down his torso and he saw the evidence of last night activities. Bruising littered his upper body, with a delicate little bite mark in the middle of each. Automatically he touched fingers to his neck, wincing at the slight pain as he prodded the two puncture wounds from Mycroft’s fangs. Evidently the vampire hadn’t kept to the neck during their lovemaking. 

John blanched. Lovemaking. Shit, he had just slept with his best friend’s brother. And for what reason? He didn’t really know. Was being incredibly turned on in an instant a good enough reason to sleep with a man he hardly knew, barely had a conversation with and didn’t even know he wasn’t human until a couple of months ago? 

Pulling up the covers delicately, he could see equal signs of abuse lower on his abdomen with an impressive looking hickey forming on the inside of his right thigh. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer that he wasn’t about to find anything painful on a rather delicate part of his anatomy, but a quick peek, and at least his cock seemed to have come away unscathed.

He didn’t quite know how to feel that Mycroft hadn’t said goodbye. John wondered what the vampire was feeling right now. Perhaps he was thinking this was a very big mistake. What would happen if John fed Mycroft again? Would they be doing this all the time? Even if they didn’t, he was going to have to address the issue of giving Holmes senior blood.

But still, what the hell was he going to say to Sherlock?


	23. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part3: The Path To Damnation  
> Having stumbled upon Mycroft’s vampirism the revelation has left a strain on John and Sherlock’s friendship. The doctor tries to reconcile life with his friend and the after math of recent events. Unfortunately things are never easy, and he is about to become much more to Mycroft than simply his brother’s flat mate.

John only managed just to keep his mouth shut in front of Sherlock, but detective or not, his friend surely knew something was up. 

He visited Sherlock in hospital regularly over the next two weeks had heard nothing from Mycroft since their…night together. Truth was, John was feeling a little abandoned and perhaps slightly used. 

Whether Sherlock was unconcerned as to how his brother managed to get blood or he was trying not to bring the subject, the issue was not mentioned during his frequent visits. That, at least, made it a little easier for him to hide what he had done. The issue of donating blood was still going to be a tricky one, never mind adding sex on top of that.

 

 

Nearly three weeks after first feeding the vampire his blood, John received a phone call from an unknown number. Staring at the screen of his mobile for a moment he had an idea who it may be and decided he was going to ignore it. Mycroft hadn’t so much as said a word to him since he woke up alone, so whatever the man wanted, he wouldn’t be getting, until John received an apology. 

After several minutes of ringing it was clear that Mycroft wasn’t giving up. Curiosity got the better of him and John finally relented, answering his phone perhaps a little more briskly than usual.

‘Yes?’

‘John.’

Typical of a Holmes, no hello, no introduction and no pleasantries whatsoever. Hang on, did Mycroft always sound like that? Was it his imagination but John could have sworn Mycroft’s usually smooth tones were practically purring his name.

‘My brother is being released from hospital tomorrow. I trust you have been informed.’

‘Yes, his doctors did tell me-‘ Distracted and thrown off topic, what he really wanted to question him about is what the hell happened after Mycroft bit him and whether they were going to pretend it never happened. John certainly wasn’t going to make a habit of it if he had to feed the vampire regularly.

Mycroft steered them back on topic as his mind wandered to more personal issues. Well he had his answer; Holmes was pretending nothing happened.

‘You will be there to collect him, John?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘Excellent.’

He could hear a final breath over the phone. It was clear to him that this was all Mycroft called for and would likely be hanging up.

‘Hold up. He is your brother Mycroft, why the hell aren’t you going to get him?’

‘Do you really believe that Sherlock would appreciate my appearance? By all means Doctor, I will collect him if you wish…’

On second thoughts, he was right. The Holmes brothers had a knack for rubbing each other up the wrong way and with Sherlock’s illness and general cranky mood after being cooped up in hospital for weeks, it was maybe best that they stay as far apart as possible.

‘No, no. Its ok, you are probably right, we wouldn’t want a scene. I will get him.’

‘Would you like a car? One can be arranged?’

‘We will be fine with a taxi. Thank you anyway.’

It was now or never. He was going to have to ask. Surely the government official could expect him to do…that, and then just ignore it. They had had sex, John wasn’t entirely sure he would have wanted it to happen again now he thought on it, but they couldn’t just leave it be, especially since they may becoming unfortunately closer very soon.

‘Um, Mycroft?’

There was a distant ‘yes?’ as if he was already half way putting down the receiver and had to return.

‘Are you…alright? The, t-the blood…thing, was…ok?’

There was a short silence on the other end of the phone. Only the slight crackle on the line let him know the other man was still there.

‘Perfectly fine John, good evening.’

With that there was the distinct noise of the receiver disconnecting. Oh well he tried, but this was going to be incredibly awkward when Mycroft next needed blood.

 

 

 

Five weeks in hospital and John was actually glad to see Sherlock up and about and also back home in Baker Street. That is; he was glad to have him home for all of five minutes, until the detective began complaining about the state of his workstations which John and Mrs Hudson had taken the opportunity to tidy and also the ruin of several key experiments.

John also had to tell him that he disposed of the fingers that had been stored in the fridge. Sherlock was not best amused and was making his displeasure widely known causing him to hide his old army gun in case the detective felt the need to take it out on the walls again. 

Sherlock was even less amused when his brother turned up later in the evening to check that he was alright under the pretext of suggesting a new case if he was ‘feeling up to it.’ John suspected that Mycroft was either feeling guilty about the situation and wished to distract his brother the best way he knew how or that he really did care about him despite their unusual relationship. There was nothing the younger Holmes loved more than a new puzzle.

Regrettably, Mycroft was barely in the flat ten minutes when all hell broke loose.

How on earth Sherlock deduced what they had done from simply being in the same room together John would never know. Mycroft waltzed into the flat as usual, with an air of superiority and owning the very ground they were walking on. He received a curt nod and a small ‘Good evening, John’, Sherlock the same. 

Sherlock’s gaze hardened on his brother who sat a thick manila folder on the table top. Mycroft retreated to stand near the mantel, regarded his brother with his usual exasperated air. 

‘I am glad to see that you are looking well Sherlock.’

John could hear the icy infliction of response in his friend’s voice from the kitchen. He was trying to inconspicuously hide while making tea but evidently that plan wasn’t going to work.

‘What did you do to him?’

Oh dear. Voices were rising and Sherlock’s tone was one of unimaginable threat. 

Hurrying from the kitchen he found both brothers standing confrontationally opposite one another, separated only by a small chair. Sherlock was on his feet but really shouldn’t have been exerting himself. He was released from hospital on the instruction of taking things easy and the increasingly violent shade of angry red his face was turning suggested relaxation was a long way off.

‘Oh for goodness sake Sherlock, I didn’t do anything to him.’

‘Don’t lie Mycroft, you were never any good at it. Your right pinkie twitches when you lie. Look, it is rubbing along your umbrella handle as we speak.’

Gripping the umbrella like a weapon, Mycroft’s fingers visibly tightened on the object and his jaw flexed in anger.

‘Listen Sherlock-‘John thought he should intervene, it was after all, partly his doing.

‘You stay out of it!’ The vehemence of his friend’s reaction momentarily silenced him. Sherlock looked furious; a small vein throbbed on his forehead and a small bead of sweat trickled down from his hairline.  
One long legged stride later and Sherlock’s right fist unexpectedly connected with the side of Mycroft’s jaw. A second blow followed resulted in a horrible crunching noise as the vampire staggered slightly, almost backing into the fireplace, but he did not go down.

Sherlock’s third shot never even connected. Astonished with the speed of movement, John witnessed Mycroft catch Sherlock’s swung fist in the palm of his hand. For a brief moment he thought the older man was going to fight back, the tension in his body suggested he may just pay his brother back for his outburst. 

John did not particularly want to be in the middle of a fight between the two. Both were considerably taller and possibly stronger than he was, army training or not. And who knew just what kind of abilities Mycroft would have as a vampire? Sherlock had already taken two healthy swings and he didn’t so much as have a scratch on him.

With a forceful shove Mycroft pushed Sherlock backward until he landed on the armchair with a thump. The detective was breathing a little too heavily, anger but also exertion taking it out of him. 

‘Sit down Sherlock, before you hurt yourself.’ 

The disparaging comment only resulted in a snarl of rage from his brother.

‘John offered me blood while you were…indisposed, and I took it. I have not injured him permanently.’

‘You had no right!’

Mycroft eyebrows shot to his hairline, he spread his arms in a supplicant gesture. ‘He was perfectly willing.’

He was about to intervene. Technically John had, sort of, talked Mycroft into it. The vampire was quite willing to go stealing blood from some poor unfortunate passer-by, it was John’s guilty conscious that could let him go out and do that. He could have explained to Sherlock but his friend sneered at his brother from the couch.

‘Oh I bet he was. Is that what you tell yourself, brother? They are all willing little victims? But that isn’t all you did to him. Did you tell him what would happen when you took the blood?’

Mycroft only stared at his toes, rather evasively, while John looked from Holmes to Holmes. What did Sherlock mean, what would happen when he took the blood?

A small evil smirk spread across Mycroft’s features, the kind that usually meant he was heating up to an overblown argument with his brother and the pair of them would exchange nastily horrible verbal interchange.

‘Why, what is wrong Sherlock, jealous?’

Sherlock made a derisive noise through his nose but John caught the small glance in his direction, checking where he was. Tension sang through his body and his long fingers were drumming on the arm of the chair, something he usually did in extreme cases of agitation. This scenario was going much worse than John would have thought.

‘I wonder what tortured you more, thinking of me or…him.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Mycroft.’

‘Tell me, exactly how many people, other than me, have you actually ever slept with?’ Mycroft’s voice was pure venom, grinding in the ultimate insult in Sherlock’s direction.

Good god, John thought. They had slept together. As if he needed any confirmation it was on the face of both brothers in front of him. He felt slightly ill. He wasn’t going to comment on relationships since his own with his sister was poor and he had yet to hold a stable relationship with any of his partners, but…but they were related! How could they even contemplate it?

Twitching in the armchair, Sherlock rose to his feet; no doubt looking to throw another punch in his brother’s direction but John quickly grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back down. There was no point in fighting.

‘Sherlock don’t.’ He pointed a finger at Mycroft, ‘You too, both of you just. Stop. Ok?’

‘He was delicious, Sherlock.’ Mycroft murmured seductively from somewhere behind him in a teasing manner, John had to make a grab for Sherlock again and practically wrestle him back into he chair.

‘Enough of this!’

He knelt at his friend’s feet, placing the palm of his hands on both knees. Sherlock’s cool grey eyes bore into him, his face set in anger, fists clenched by his sides.

‘Listen. I offered to give Mycroft some of my blood because I don’t want you hurt any more than you have to. I do not want to have to take you back to hospital because you are too weak or he has taken too much. What you have been doing is not a job for one person and I couldn’t, in all good conscious, let him go out and do it to someone else.’

The younger Holmes gave a small barking laugh, but not like anything was funny. ‘And I suppose fucking him was an added extra?’

John blanched at the language; he had hoped to skip over that point. Hanging his head, he wondered what he could possibly say. He hadn’t even known what had come over him at the time.

‘That was, perhaps, a mistake.’

‘You haven’t figured it out have you?’

Glancing up, he met his friends gaze once more; it was almost a look of pity but also astonishment. A look Sherlock usually wore when he thought John was being particularly dense.

‘You didn’t have a choice. You were always going to sleep with him after he had taken blood. You were always going to want that.

John looked form Sherlock to Mycroft; the other man’s face was blank, unreadable. Mycroft was very still, perhaps hoping that by appearing to not be present he could avoid further argument.

‘The mechanics are very simple, John. When faced with a threat a human beings natural reaction is fight or flight. Whatever these things are-’ He indicated to his brother, ‘-I use the term vampire for lack of a better definition, although the resemblance to modern film and literature is slim. None would lie still while someone drinks there blood, and it is possible for him to do it to the point of death. Don’t be fooled, he could drain you completely of blood in one go.’

The government official made a small shrug confirming that yes, he could be very dangerous. He hoped never to get on the wrong side of Mycroft.

‘As far as I can analyse when bitten some sort of anti-coagulant is injected into he skin, it stops the blood clotting at the wound in order for them to drink. Moreover another chemical seems to be added, one that I can find no trace of after the event. It must be natural; maybe an extreme dose of hormone or endorphin or it may be something that breaks down in the blood stream very quickly.’

John nearly laughed at Sherlock’s analytical mind. Of course when presented with the existence of a supernatural creature he was going to try and find some sort of scientific method or reasoning. He shook a particularly amusing image form his mind of Sherlock attempting to collect samples from his brother in much the same way as you would extract venom from a snake, but now was really not the time to be laughing.

‘Whatever it is, it keeps you docile, you don’t try to run away, but it is more, you don’t want to run away. It is some sort of drug of imaginable pleasure. You perhaps have not been exposed to as much as I have but you were always going to want to have sex with Mycroft because that is the reaction you are supposed to have.’

Shaking his head slightly, John thought there may have been a point in what his friend was saying. It did feel good, incredibly good but he liked to think that he was not a mindless slave to feelings and desires and hormones. And it was so out of character for Sherlock. There had always been hints and suggestions of his drug use, so John supposed he would be the best person to know about drug-like effects but here Sherlock was, almost apparently claiming that he had no choice to sleep with his brother. Almost like he was doing it against his will…

Despite the experience and being extremely out of character for himself, he did think he could have stopped or perhaps wanted to believe he could have stopped. John didn’t have to…do, what he did with Mycroft surely? But his friend seemed so adamant that he didn’t have a choice.

‘Kept that little bit quite before he agreed, didn’t you brother.’

Sherlock was placing the blame for this squarely at Mycroft’s feet. John knew he was never going to take this well but the anger and rage in his facial expressions was scarily intense.

Mycroft sounded suddenly tired and very weary, ‘I didn’t hurt him Sherlock and what we did was in no means intentional.’

‘Oh I’m sure nothing is intentional with you, Mycroft. Is that what you tell yourself? Well whatever helps you sleep at night.’

Looking as if he was biting his tongue to keep from making any more comments, he murmured ‘For what it is worth Sherlock, I apologise.’

Sherlock wasn’t listening, his anger fuelling a tirade of insults in both Mycroft and John’s direction.

‘There are so many monsters in our family, what is another one that actually is an undead creature of the night. You are essentially worse than our father, you know that?’

Whatever little colour there was in Mycroft face, drained completely. Instantly the man looked ill, his expression stony and cheeks a hollow grey.

‘You think there is nothing wrong with you, or you think you are so much better than him because you perhaps have a slight conscious. You know the definition of the term ‘vampire’ surely, other than the usual European myth and legend it is someone who preys on others and that is you to a tea Mycroft. From the moment you turned into that thing you have destroyed my entire life and given that you can’t seem to die I am going to be stuck with you for an unfortunately long time. You should have just left me in Sussex with him as a child; I would have probably escaped the torment of this family by now.’

John could only watch, slightly shocked, as Mycroft blinked one, very slowly. He opened his mouth as if emerging from trance but closed it without a word. He had never seen Mycroft rendered speechless except when he was chided for belittling Mrs Hudson.

John could tell that Sherlock hadn’t meant it, not really. His friends expression and slightly twitch in his eyes told him that he had lashed out in his anger much the same way he had with him at Baskerville. Sherlock knew just what buttons to press to really hurt someone when he wanted to. However he was a Holmes, and incredibly stubborn, John knew that the detective wouldn’t admit he was wrong or sorry.

Without a word Mycroft walked to the door of the sitting room, his blue gaze fixed unseeingly on the floor. He didn’t so much as acknowledge him as he passed where John was standing. Pausing, briefly at the door, as if he were about to say something, but as John glanced he kept walking. 

John caught a brief ‘goodbye Sherlock’ and turned, but the vampire was gone.

After a few moments the only sound was the soft clicking of the front door as it closed and Sherlock’s ragged breathing, chest still heaving in anger. If he had been aiming to hurt his brother in the most efficient way possible then he thought Sherlock had certainly succeeded.

‘How is he worse than your father? What did he do?’

Silence. His friend hadn’t moved a muscle, still resolutely staring at the empty space by the fire that Mycroft had left.

‘Sherlock?’ John prompted.

‘Nothing, it does not matter.’

‘He looked really upset.’

‘Oh drop it John!’ Sherlock snapped viciously as he rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Retreating back into the kitchen out the way, John didn’t try and force him to talk just at the moment but he knew he was going to have to think of something to fix this. He would hate to think that he was going to be the reason they both fell out. For as long as he had known Sherlock, the relationship between both brothers was unusual and strained but still, underneath, there was something there. Caring, a family bond, mutual devotion, they didn’t hate each other, John was quite sure of that. They were family and given the current situation between himself and his own sister Harriet, he wouldn’t want that on his conscious. John could only hope Sherlock would come to his senses and if not apologise-as it wasn’t really his way-at least try to make some sort of effort to talk to his brother again because it sounded suspiciously like Mycroft wasn’t coming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My big thanks to everyone who has read and continues to do so. Your feedback, comments and kind words are all lovely.


	24. Glad To Be Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4: Brothers Till The End
> 
> London 1991
> 
> Back home in the UK, Mycroft’s life has changed forever. He is struggling to come to terms with his new found vampirism and it is not just his own life that has been dramatically impacted, he has a fifteen year old brother to take care of.

Thanks to the not-so-friendly warning and the rather uneasy feeling forming in his gut, Mycroft decided home was probably the best place for him. His work was concluded anyway and if the Italian police needed anything in relation to his unpleasant incident then they would just need to reach him in the UK. His office would deal with any legality regarding his abduction and assault. 

What he really wanted to do now was go home and attempt to gather his life and thoughts into some semblance of normality.

The flight out of Italy was as uneventful as the one entering, except the introduction now of a seemingly unhealthy observation of those around him. And the fact he hadn’t so much touched a drop of food or drink in three days...well, if you didn’t count sucking the lifeblood from his anonymous female helper. 

Mycroft’s stomach heaved at the thought. He could still feel the thick trickle down the back of his throat if he closed his eyes for long enough, the consistency, the taste, the delight…it was both appealing and sickening at the same time.

 

 

Arriving back at London Heathrow was simultaneously glorious and terrifying. Happy to be away from that infernal place did not impact on the horrible feeling of the unknown. What was he supposed to do now that he was a-a...he still couldn’t say it. Not out loud, not even to himself. Despite all evidence pointed to what he now was, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

On the plane he had hours to ruminate about the future, calculating each threat and impact to his work and life in general…god, even Sherlock! Would he need to tell him or could he keep it a secret? 

Mycroft wondered how feasible it was to keep something like this a secret. Very, he thought eventually. Considering he himself had never met a vampire in his life until a week ago. How hard could it possibly be to hide from colleagues, friends (of which there were few) and family (Sherlock).

The uneasy feeling started again when he thought about his brother. The woman had warned him to stay away from family, he would only hurt them. Mycroft had initially scoffed, he was not going to be some rabid animal, he felt entirely normal. But then after what happened with Guilo…perhaps there was a rising problem after all. Just how dangerous was he to people or indeed how dangerous would he become? Was it a condition of being a- thing, that you were psychotically crazy? Mycroft wondered if he were hungry enough for blood would he find himself compelled to pounce on his brother and sink fangs into him. 

Images of the creatures that surrounding him in the Rome woodland filled his mind. Awkwardly crawling over the ground, filthy dishevelled clothing, blood running in small rivulets down their chins... he sincerely hoped he would not become anything like them.

Setting foot on UK soil and whisked through customs quite normally, a small weight eased somewhat. On familiar territory with the sights and sound of London around him Mycroft almost felt almost ordinary. The greying winter kissed skies, the rough cry of the cockney cabbie hurtling him back to Westminster, the people…everything was the same as when he left, as if the last week was all one long, bizarre and surreal dream. 

Glancing out the taxi window, a group of tourists bundling into a big red double decker bus caught his eye; Mycroft suddenly felt how silly he would sound explaining to anyone about vampires roaming the country, out among normal people.

A dark unpleasant voice at the back of his mind began wondering if any were out there at the moment, vampires amongst the busy London crowds. Would any of those unsuspecting tourists with their Union Jack hats and London Eye t-shirts have an uneasy encounter with a more bizarre member of society? 

As the taxi stopped at the traffic lights he scanned the crowds of Londoners and commuters bustling past. Were any of them now like him? Dead, or should that be undead. Did any hurry past dreaming of blood and coffins and pale skin and naked virgins instead of steaks and a bottle of beer waiting at the end of a busy day? 

He chuckled lowly at the pantomime of it. He had just imagined your classic movie vampire when really he was woefully in the dark about what this meant. He had slept fine in a bed so a coffin was clearly not obligatory and what’s more he was wandering around in broad daylight, although he had noticed a considerable itch prickling across his skin when outside and he had to squint at the daylight. He supposed slight photosensitivity was better than bursting into flames. Everything he had ever read was fiction, myths and tales, nothing more than scary stories for children and gullible adults. 

Mycroft wondered if he would be able to tell others like him. Shouldn’t being a walking contradiction to science come with and amazing sixth sense? Or maybe a super power. As far as he could tell he couldn’t even fly…didn’t vampires fly? He caught the driver looking through the taxi mirror at him. Giggling inanely to himself would be the fastest way for someone to spot something was wrong and cart him off to the loony bin. He had to stop this foolishness.

Not all vampires, he had the feeling would stalk the streets in a black silk top hat and opera cape like Dracula. They could be anyone; any normal personal in passing could be a hidden creature. Would he be able to spot them? Was being a fellow citizen of vampirey as exclusive club where he could see others of his kind. Could they also tell what he was just by looking? So many questions and Mycroft had a feeling there would be many more to come.

 

Surprisingly, back in he comfort of his own exclusive Belgravia flat, he slept rather well, if a little restlessly. Vampires clearly were not up all night prowling the dark streets for helpless victims. He could still taste it, lying alone in the dark, taste the girl’s blood. She offered so willingly and he had been so sure that he wouldn’t do it however a horrible instinct rapidly took over.

What would he do now? If he was going to need to drink blood again then where was he suppose to get it? Mycroft surmised that he could not do as his attackers had done and kidnap innocent people from the street. 

Mycroft made up his mind. He just wouldn’t. Drinking blood was a desire not a requirement...he hoped. He had an iron will, discipline taught from years under his father’s brutal reign. He would simply refrain from drinking blood. 

What is the worst that could happen?

 

 

He only made it through one day of work and it was the worst kind of torture he ever experienced. A dreadful pain in his gut niggled at him and Mycroft felt super sensitised to everything around him, things that even his superior brain never noticed before. Every movement, every breath, every small twitch of another human being was observed and magnified a hundredfold.

Did people always smell so…good?

Three hours into his working day he caught himself staring. It reminded him of the way colleagues browse the stands in the canteen looking for something tasty for lunch. He had been staring and not even realised he was automatically scanning the crowds as they passed him, sizing them up, gauging their attractiveness, their height, their weight, how easy it would be to over-power them...

Shit. He had been picking out a victim.

People, colleagues, even those he could almost call friends, well as close to friends as he ever had, were no longer acquaintances, they were...dinner.

For the first time in his life Mycroft demanded a holiday. 

Sir Emmanuelle Folcroft, cousin to the very Queen herself and unofficial godfather of Britain’s secret service was the only man that he ever had to report to. In saying he was a superior was more in name than anything else. Mycroft was far more intelligent and the services he provided were unique and exclusive. Folcroft was more the public face and liaison between Mycroft and the various governmental departments he filed, advised and ran. If anyone needed anything they rarely got to speak to Mycroft in person, Folcroft would weed out timewasters and concerns that really were below Holmes consideration. 

The ‘old boys club’ rules of position and station were still rife in the higher echelons of government. Folcroft had a title, whereas Mycroft made the odious mistake of being from a middleclass family. He may have been the better man but he would never have Folcroft’s degree of belonging, no matter how many Savile Row suits he purchased.

The man raised eyebrows at him possibly due to his abrupt and demanding nature. He rarely took a holiday and while occasionally curt or abrasive, Mycroft was a diplomat; his manner to the right people was perfect.

Despite rarely asking for a holiday out of the blue, Folcroft was full of fake, simpering sympathy and genial understanding as a gentleman of his breeding demanded. Of course they understood what a terrible ordeal he must have been through, they had no idea it was so serious but certainly, if he wished time to recover then they would happily give him leave.

Folcroft offered him a drink from the extensive cabinet beside his desk-it was never too early for scotch-before waving him merrily out his office once Mycroft declined, professing they would all chug along just dandy without him and not to fret, take as much time as he needed and that no doubt he would see him at the Diogenes club, recuperating.

God he hoped the oaf was retiring soon. But he had his leave, it would be easier to avoid the temptation to bite people if he was not surrounded by them.

Heading home, feeling uneasy but glad that he did not need to be cooped up in his office watching the great bustle of people to-ing and fro-ing. It was withdrawal he surmised, nothing more. Abstaining from blood was like abstaining from narcotics. The need, the want, the pain would dissipate. He would take a holiday, shut himself off from other human beings and distractions, and discipline himself not to take blood.


	25. Holmes For The Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4: Brothers Till The End
> 
> London 1991
> 
> Back home in the UK, Mycroft’s life has changed forever. He is struggling to come to terms with his new found vampirism and it is not just his own life that has been dramatically impacted, he has a fifteen year old brother to take care of.

Sherlock left school as fast as humanly possible, before anyone spotted where he was going or what he was up to. 

The Easter break had arrived, which meant two whole weeks free of the inane, mediocre curriculum. He had no interest in standard Geography or History classes, the Sciences, he supposed, were mildly entertaining but he quickly realised any work set before him was several years below his intellect. As a result he was often bored and had been labelled a trouble maker or even a delinquent by some of the more aggravating members of staff.

He much preferred to challenge himself with his own research and work. Unfortunately this often resulted in failing to hand in the required assignments, and despite being above average in terms of technical knowledge; Sherlock was performing unexpectedly poorly in straight classes. Arguments over his grades were a frequent bone of contention with his brother.

Mycroft had promised him the holidays in London, while two weeks of close proximity with a nosy, overbearing politician was likely to be bothersome, Sherlock secretly thrilled at the prospect. He could wander the busy bustling streets and pursue a number of exciting avenues that were often closed in a rural countryside boarding school.

Sherlock’s first love was crime, historical texts, cold cases; he devoured everything he could get his hands on from serial killers to executions to methods of body disposal and decomposition. His classmates often called him morbid but the intricacies of corruption and misconduct fascinated him.

It was possible, he reasoned, that his interest may have sparked after the police ineptly failed to discover any wrong doing in his brother’s actions towards their father. Not that there was any sympathy for the man. Sherlock reluctantly conceded Mycroft was a fraction less troublesome in his life than his repulsive father had been and would not want to see him behind bars for simply freeing them from his tyranny. However the authorities failed to even concede any possible action in their direction. It was so clear to him what Mycroft had done, he failed to comprehend at the time how no one else noticed; it was so absurdly simple.

 

Normally, being only fifteen years old, a responsible adult would have needed to collect him, and much to Sherlock’s disappointment, Mycroft had not sent the required forms allowing his release form the school grounds during the term break. He hadn’t even so much as heard from his brother since the phone call almost ten weeks ago when he arrived in Rome.

His brother’s interference in his day to day life was troublesome and only partially tolerated, which is why he was initially glad of the lack of constant harassment of failing grades and responsibilities. Sherlock did not believe anything wrong of Mycroft not being in touch. Often lost in his work for weeks on end, he suspected it was convenient for Mycroft to have his wayward teenage brother safely out his way and seconded in the Sussex countryside.

Mycroft’s forgetfulness or not, the younger Holmes was not passing the opportunity to visit the crime capital of Britain. The things he could learn on the streets of London would further expand his research such as his current foot print analysis or tobacco categorisation. It would also give him an excellent opportunity to practice his pickpocketing skills; the staff and students in school had become too easy prey and Sherlock felt if you truly wanted to understand some crime then you should try and perpetrate a few. It was also quite a useful skill to have.

He was more than old enough to be able to get himself from school to the City and Sherlock knew where Mycroft’s Westminster flat was located. He even had his own key. His brother would be unhappy at his sudden unplanned arrival, but he reasoned there would be nothing Mycroft could or would do about it by the time he got there.

Packing a light bag, Sherlock slipped from the school grounds before the Dean could question where he was going or inform him he would be spending the holidays stuck at school. A short walk to the nearest train station, and thanks to his brother’s fairly generous allowance, he was soon on his way to King’s Cross.

The train ride was uneventful but instead of taking a taxi from the station to Mycroft’s home overlooking St James’s Park, Sherlock decided to walk and get his bearings. 

 

Arriving at the flat, a simple flash of his passport as i.d to the concierge waived off any trepidation the old and portly man had about a teen entering the building. Holmes was apparently a recognisable name and Mycroft had must mentioned before that his brother may be staying. Sherlock supposed he did not appear like the usual delinquent or housebreaker being still dressed in his school uniform.

At his brother’s flat door Sherlock put his key in the lock and immediately paused. Something was off. The whole place seemed eerily quiet. On one hand it should have been, he supposed. Mycroft would likely be at work at this time of the day but he had a horrible feeling of being watched. Perhaps his brother was indeed home?

‘Mycroft?’ He called out to emptiness as he opened the door gently.

Nothing. 

It must have been his imagination. Still he crept in the doorway and closed it very softly behind him. Discarding his bag on the back of a chair because he knew Mycroft would be upset for the mess, Sherlock eased through the flat checking the various rooms. There was a terrible smell from somewhere, much like filth and decay….

The smell intensified the further he walked inwards, he quickly checked the kitchen and bathroom and noticed the spare bedroom compete with a lot of his things set up and ready. The place was in an unusual amount of disarray. Mycroft’s cleanliness and order were compulsive bordering on the obsessive. The flat did not look as if had been cleaned for weeks and items were haphazardly scattered around, pictures knocked out of alignment on the wall, ornaments moved, clothing on the floor, dished left on table tops.

Was his brother ill? Had he been burgled? Unlikely given the security downstairs and a quick scan of the apartment showed disarray, valuables were moved, not taken.

The heavy oak door of Mycroft’s bedroom was firmly closed. Sherlock looked at this, standing, staring in silence for a few minutes. Pressing his ear to the door he could not hear anything behind. Sherlock preferred facts. Cold, hard clinical statistics and interpretation but some untoward feeling deep in the pit of his stomach was telling him not to open the door. He couldn’t explain it. He gave no credence to ‘gut feeling’, that, along with luck, was for simple unimaginative and dim-witted people.

He knocked softly and was rewarded with a small noise behind the door, a soft scraping of fabric and a dim thunk.

‘Mycroft. Are you in there?’

Sherlock knocked again, a few sharp raps before turning the handle and pushing the door open.

Through the dim, half-light he saw the vague outline of a large shape moving; half dressed, rivulets of blood, pale, a shock of red hair, black eyes…whatever it was, it wasn’t his brother.

Before he could gather any semblance of being or take a closer look, a heavy weight careered into him and the door, slamming it firmly behind him. 

His body was thrown heavily against the bedroom wall. Gasping for breath, all the air was knocked from his lungs, he couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t even see with the large black mass obscuring his vision.   
Sherlock felt agonisingly sharp pains in his legs and arms as elbows and knees collided forcefully with wall and floor. He heard the tear of fabric and something much heavier. The room was nothing but a blur of motion as he scrambled on the hard wooden floor, chest heaving and heart pumping. The echo of his heartbeat in his own ears was matched only by soft snarling, hissing noises. He felt impact on the back of his neck, shoulders and head as whatever it was grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him like a ragdoll until he was almost fully splayed on the floor. 

He snarled at himself to try harder, shock was no excuse, he was intelligent, fear and panic was for lesser people than he. Sherlock was a fencing and martial arts expert. He had taken several defence classes throughout his teenage years, he should be better than this! 

A translucent hand like appendage, blue veins and sharp nails, almost claws, thudded onto the floor just beside his head. Despite his wriggling and composing his emotions in an effort to counteract the attack whatever it was, was much stronger than he. Bringing his right leg up sharply, it connected with the figure but had no effect. Sherlock felt a sharp pain in his knee and his leg went numb. He suspected his counter attack had failed and his leg was now broken. 

He couldn’t turn properly to get a decent look at his attacker, out the corner of his eye he could see a few shredded remains of Mycroft’s meticulous suits and umbrella discarded beside the bed as it felt like a red hot poker was shoved into his right shoulder. Vision blurring and the searing pain intensified along his neck and back, Sherlock couldn’t help crying out long ragged screams into the dark.

 

 

Mycroft came to in a haze of sensations. He was sitting on his bedroom floor with no genuine idea how he got there. 

The first thing he noticed was the red. There was a lot of red around, his body, his hands, all the way up to his elbows… Something wasn’t working; his brain tried to process so much colour but couldn’t quite make sense of it. He gripped his hands wondering why there were red and…wet. His fingers stuck to one another as he touched them together, texture slightly sticky…

His hands were trembling, he didn’t really know why. Mycroft had an awful taste in his mouth and his vision was off. 

He was having trouble focusing. It wasn’t for a few moments until he noticed the lump lying next to him on the floor... a person, all long limbs splayed at awkward angles, white shirt soaked in blood.

The face was a mask of red splashes; blood had congealed so thickly on one side of the figures face it was almost black. An eyelid fluttered but was unable to open due to the amount of blood gluing it shut but he did seem to be moving…barely. The dark curly head looked suspiciously like Sherlock…

Mycroft grabbed his brother by the shoulders attempting to lift his upper body for the spreading mass of wet underneath him. A soft gurgling sound escaped Sherlock’s lips indicating something wasn’t quite right internally. Blood bubble and trickled from his nostrils and corners of mouth when he moved.

Eye lids fluttered again, long lashes thick with wet blood.

‘Sherlock!’ Mycroft’s voice was raising panic as fresh blood trickled from under his collar. 

He was a danger, a danger to everyone around him she said. He was covered in his brother’s blood, and his brother was lying unconscious on his bedroom floor, Sherlock needed help.

On auto pilot, Mycroft stood and grabbed the phone in the hall, quickly calling for an ambulance. Balling up a discarded shirt he found a large torn piece of flesh on Sherlock’s right shoulder and pushed the fabric into he wound to stop the rapid trickle of blood cascading down his lean pale chest. 

Passing the bedroom mirror Mycroft didn’t recognise the person in it. His pale face was plastered in blood, matting his hair, his pupils were impossibly wide and he was only partly dressed, what he did have on was dirty and tattered. Automatically he tried to wash away the stains on his face and hands watching the pink tinged water swirl around the plug hole. His clothing was covered, his torso. 

Distantly he heard the noise of footsteps on the hard wooden floor. The concierge and two paramedics burst into the flat carrying all matter of equipment.

What followed passed almost as a dream. The intruders stopped briefly, probably hesitating alarmingly over the sight of Mycroft and his semi-conscious brother and the vast quantity of blood decorating the small room. Mycroft answered questions on autopilot as they tended his brother. His name, age, any medical conditions, what happened…how would he explain what happened? He would just need to tell them the truth and hope they would throw him in a medical facility for dangerous deranged lunatics. He wasn’t hurt. No the blood wasn’t his. After a quick cursory check they seemed satisfied that they did not have two patients and focused all their attention on making sure Sherlock stayed alive until they reached hospital.

Most of his answers were lost in frantic cried and actions of the two paramedics, more concerned with the figure on the floor than Mycroft’s shocked and mumbled mutterings.

He had bitten his brother, damn near ripped his throat out and now Sherlock was possibly dying and it was all his fault…he could have cried if his mind was working properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks for all the kind words, comments and encouragement. You guys are great! Apologies for the lack of updates recently, I have had a terrible amount of stuff going on and other works I have been trying to finish, but hopefully now can keep on top of it all now. xx


	26. Secrets Of Government

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4: Brothers Till The End
> 
> London 1991
> 
> Back home in the UK, Mycroft’s life has changed forever. He is struggling to come to terms with his new found vampirism and it is not just his own life that has been dramatically impacted, he has a fifteen year old brother to take care of.

Wrapped in a bright red emergency blanket Mycroft understood he was in a state of shock. Understandable, given the circumstances. The most shocking thing to him at the moment however, is why he wasn’t currently under arrest. 

He supposed, most likely due to his incoherent mumbling, there was still some confusion as to what exactly caused his brothers injuries. 

Sherlock was presently in a critical state and covered in blood. The first paramedic’s best guess is that the younger Holmes had been savaged by some large animal, maybe a dog. Mycroft could neither confirm nor deny but coupled with the blood on himself and tattered clothing they put two and two together and assumed the same had happened to him. Stupid of them really, but he was in no position to point out their obvious lack of deductive reasoning.

In the confines of the ambulance it had been challenging enough to convince them that he was not in fact hurt and to focus all their attention on his brother. Contented that Sherlock was now receiving help Mycroft soon found himself almost ignored within the back of the ambulance. Normally this would have been fine, but the usually peaceful silence of his own thoughts was suddenly unbearable. There was one place that he didn’t want to be right now and that was in his own head. Flashes of Sherlock’s translucently pale skin in his hands, warm soft neck under his lips, the taste of sweet metallic blood rolling across his tongue, the exciting little way he struggled and strained helplessly against him…

Oh god, it had felt so good. Mycroft’s head swam. ‘I’m-I think I’m going to be sick.’

A cardboard tray was thrust under his nose as the paramedic was busy focusing attention of keeping Sherlock alive.

Heaving, the bottom of the tray was soon splattered with thick globs of congealing blood…the only thing in his stomach available to come up…his brother’s blood. He had to get out of here.

No sooner had he contemplated simply jumping from a moving vehicle did the ambulance pull up sharply to the hospital where a number of other official looking people waited to escort Sherlock inside, connecting more tubes and barking orders as they went.

Mycroft stumbled into late afternoon drizzle, fresh air doing the world of good. He was steered automatically into a clinical but busting corridor by a small blond haired girl in a blue nursing uniform. She had a sincere smile and a sympathetic expression. She patted him kindly on the arm, assuring him that his brother was in the best of care, before hurrying off to the calls of doctors and patients.

Mycroft was the only next of kin, and judging by the uneasy faces those around him, they were very keen on keeping him close. A small window in the corridor gave only a dimly obscured view of a head of dark curls and a number of white coats passing to and fro across his vision. He could only presume that Sherlock wasn’t likely to live and the thought twisted like a red hot knife in his gut. 

He had killed his brother.

With a last forlorn look through the tiny observation window, his brother’s body was an awfully pale sight; clothing cut away, connected to all manner of tubes and drips and machines-half of which Mycroft could not name at the moment. He was informed that they were taking him to surgery in moments; he knew he may never see Sherlock again, breathing that is. 

Mycroft glanced down the stark, clinical hospital corridor where two on duty policemen were standing chatting to each other over a cup of disgustingly over brewed machine coffee. He considered walking right up to them and confessing his crimes but had notable reservations. Would they believe him? They would laugh at him surely, possibly thinking he was a drunk or mentally unstable.

With a final whispered goodbye as Sherlock was wheeled from the small accident and emergency room, Mycroft walked to the nearest phone and called the only person he could think of, Folcroft.

It started off quite well, calm, composed, even; a logical explanation of his actions and what he had done. But by the end it was probably hard to tell exactly what he was saying through large body-racking sobs. 

Mycroft also learned something new, he couldn’t cry. Vampire tear ducts apparently didn’t work, but it didn’t stop the panic and stuttering and heave of his chest through broken speech. The small amount of moisture wiped from his cheek across the back of his hand was tinged pink and he hugged the receiver in misery.

There was a deathly silence on the other end of the phone when he finally ran out of sins to confess. He was almost convinced Folcroft had hung up on him or was currently deriving the best way to have him committed.

‘Stay where you are, do not move and do not talk to anyone else, Mycroft.’

It was hard to judge Folcroft’s mood or thoughts through the brief clipped sentence. The phone on the other end disconnected sharply leaving Mycroft absently listening to a dialling tone and wondering what was coming next. He had a suspicion the secret service would be showing up at the hospital any minute to take him away. They probably would shoot him in public but that was no guarantee it may not happen later; he has seen more than one high profile government agent ‘disposed of’ under the pretext of an accident.

 

 

Folcroft strolled down the hospital corridor looking as if he just stepped out of his tailor’s parlour. It made Mycroft acutely aware that his own clothing was in tatters and that he was still mostly clothed in a hospital blanket. 

Trailing in the aristocratic man’s wake was a shorter, dark haired woman. Chocolate colourer hair was pulled tight in a high pony tail. She was dressed conventionally, and smartly, in deep grey skirt suit and seemed to guild along quite effortlessly with no care for where she was going with her nose stuck in a book. The faintest echo of high heels along the tiled hospital floor accompanied them.

As the man stopped just before him, Mycroft automatically got to his feet, a nervous anticipation building in his gut. The mystery woman didn’t so much as acknowledge his presence, stopping a few steps behind Folcroft.

‘Mycroft!’ Folcroft’s greeting was positively genial and it threw him a little off guard.

‘How’s your brother...what’s the boy’s name Shercraft or something...’

‘Sherlock.’ He interjected in a small voice, much smaller than normal. Mycroft was still wondering what was going and quickly checked down the corridor. No men in suits, no security, no police...he wasn’t being taken away?

Folcroft placed a hand on his shoulder which he fought the urge to shake off. His manner, although nothing untoward, was beginning to irritate. 

Glancing around, Folcroft quickly spotted a small patients room and ushered Mycroft through it, the dark haired girl trailing in their wake.

Once inside, he dropped his hand gently and moved towards a battered chair, clearly a long time service of the hospital with faded cushions and chipped wooded legs. Opening his jacket and positioning himself comfortably, he crossed his legs and sat looking expectantly to the standing Mycroft.

Mycroft resisted the urge to punch his calmly smug face, eventually taking his own seat just in front of him. Folcroft looked as if he were about to say something but a quick disdainful glance around the room earned an impetuous sniff of disapproval. His nose wrinkled as if there was a very bad small under it.

‘Here? A public hospital. Really Mycroft, there are much better clinics your brother could have been in. He will receive the same benefits as yourself as you are the only next of kin.’

‘I-‘ 

That wasn’t how he expected the start of this conversation to go and Mycroft couldn’t help but stutter in his reply, 

‘I, I didn’t think, I simply called an ambulance.’

Folcroft waived a hand in dismissal, ‘Do not fret, it is being taken care of.’

‘Taken –taken care of?’

Mycroft cursed himself. He was usually much sharper than this and the other man’s currently pitying look was not helping his mood.

‘Your brother will be seen to as soon as he emerges from surgery. Once he has been examined and is fit to move we will have him taken to somewhere more...suitable.’

‘Somewhere...suitable? Where? Why? I don’t think there is any ne-‘

Folcroft held up a hand to silence him ‘Taken care of Mycroft, all taken care of.’

Of course it was taken care of. Everything always was. For the great and the good and the wealthy and the powerful, all under the pretext of national security or keeping the country running or avoiding public scandal. Opponents could be discretely removed, terrorists detained, blackmailers paid and hushed backhandedly…usually Mycroft was part of the workings of the system and was fully aware of its advantages. Of course a little thing like a government employee murdering his own brother wouldn’t even fucking register so why at this moment was he so keen to punch Folcroft in the face?

‘What about what I did, I-‘Mycroft paused. The whole story had come tumbling from his mouth over the phone before he could stop himself but sitting staring at the man before him, he suddenly clamed up. How could he think to repeat, in all seriousness, what he had only a few hours ago?

Folcroft’s lip twitched, an expression of slight amusement crossing his features before disappearing. ‘What you did? It will be…handled.’

Mycroft exploded in pent up frustration. To his credit Folcroft only showed mild surprise while the mystery woman he completely forgot about standing at the door cast her eye up from her book for a brief moment before looking back down without comment.

‘WHAT I DID?! I NEARLY KILLED HIM! HOW CAN YOU COVER THAT UP YOU POMPOUS OAF? DO YOU EVEN HAVE ANY IDEA? I TORN HIS THROAT OUT, QUITE LITERALLY! THERE IS BLOOD COVERING MY APARTMENT! I AM FIGHTING THE URGE TO DO THE SAME TO YOU NOW!’

Folcroft’s neatly manicured blond grey moustache twitched again. He reached inside his suit breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Placing one between his lips he offered the pack to Mycroft without further comment.

‘This is a hospital!’ Mycroft was only keeping his voice below a loud yell, well aware that he had lost his temper and there was no need to shout in the other man’s face. But it was still difficult showing restraint.   
Eventually he relented and took an offered cigarette as Folcroft light up from an expensive gold lighter in his pocket and passed it to him.

‘At least these won’t kill you anymore.’ He grinned lopsided as Mycroft continued to stare...did he just make a joke? Given the situation, highly inappropriate.

Waving his hand back and forth in dismissal at Holmes raised eyebrows, Folcroft murmured ‘The boy will be fine, he’ll live! We will clean your home up, I have people having a word with the doctor as we speak, the situation will never go to the general authorities, I will deal with this in house.’

‘But Sherlock-‘

‘Well-he is your brother. When he wakes up he may have some less than brotherly feelings for you. You will need to talk to him first. He should follow your instructions.’

Mycroft snorted loudly through his nose, not bloody likely. He could never get Sherlock to do what he was told.

‘All he has to do is keep his mouth shut about what you are...that’s if he can remember. Did he know it was you that attacked him?’

‘I-I do not know.’ Mycroft admitted. His brother had come looking for him. How could he have been so stupid to forget about the holidays, about the invitation to come to London? With Rome and everything that had happened, it had completely slipped his mind.

Half crazed. Weeks alone in the flat, Mycroft originally thought all he had to do was wait it out. But as time drew on he lost more and more of himself to becoming a mindless creature. At one point he found himself half-dressed and in the middle of the street outside his flat before he came to his senses, drawn by a powerful desire to hunt living people. It was at that point he locked the door and flushed his key down the toilet. If the vampire wanted out it would just need to break the door down or jump out the window. He had no thoughts, no feelings for a period of time after that. When Sherlock had arrived…it wasn’t even him. Did his brother even get a chance to open the door before he tore into him?

‘Well then’, Folcroft said genially bringing Mycroft back from his vivid contemplation of what exactly happen when he refuses blood, ‘A problem for another day. If the boy remembers nothing then we can make up a story-burglars or something, if not...you will just need to explain and hope he wishes to take it no further.’

‘So that’s it?’ Mycroft asked, a little incredulously. ‘You will just...let me go.’

‘Don’t be silly old man; we are not letting you go anywhere. You will be back at work on Monday.’

He raised eyebrows. Folcroft sighed heavily. ‘What would you have me do? Lock you up?’

Now he thought on it, well, yes. Yes that was the best thing. For him. For Sherlock. For everyone.

‘What if I do it again?’ Mycroft hoped his voice didn’t betray how small and scared it was sounding in his own head at the moment.

‘You won’t do it again.’

He seemed so sure. Mycroft could only nod in random agreement.

‘What did you do? Something silly like lock yourself in your home? When was the last time, other than your brother you touched a drop of blood?’

Mycroft hesitate, he had to think back. Rome seemed like a lifetime ago, had it only been ten weeks? Folcroft did not seem surprised; he talked so casually about it when Mycroft had been sure he would be labelled insane at his fist utterance.

‘You believe me? What-what I am.’

‘Of course I believe you. I’m not sitting here thinking you randomly go around biting people and drinking their blood for no good reason.’

‘But how can you-

‘Something like that doesn’t go unnoticed you know old fellow.’

‘No one told me!’ Anger was slowly seeping into the place or initial disbelief. How could Folcroft know about the existence of vampires, how could he know and keep it secret? Why didn’t everyone know?  
‘Need to know only, Mycroft dear. The unnatural vampires are not your areas of expertise. We have other departments that deal with that.’

‘You have departments-‘ Utter disbelief that there was a whole branch of government he knew nothing about. And, what? They kept it secret? Cleaned up after these creatures?

‘Of course we do!’ Folcroft was talking gently to him, softly, as if he were a particularly dense fiver year old.

‘Anthea!’ His sudden bark made Mycroft jump as Folcroft called her name. The brown haired girl barely battered her eyelashes as she looked up, expression bored.

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Take Mycroft home would you dear, he needs clothing and maybe a little...help.’

‘Of course sir.’

Without a backward glance the woman called Anthea opened the door and headed out into the corridor, holding the door open expectantly. Mycroft remained seated glancing from Folcroft to the door, mind still reeling from not only his attack on his brother but the whole host of new information presented to him.

‘I can’t leave him. Sherlock might not live.’

‘The boy will be fine Mycroft. You will be called if there are any problems.’

He stood and moved to the doorway where the impeccably dressed Anthea was waiting for him.

‘Oh and Mycroft,’ Folcroft called from his position, still reclined on the tatty hospital chair and still managing to make it look like a throne, ‘Your previous P.A has been moved, Anthea will take up that duty from now on.’


	27. A slippery slope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4: Brothers Till The End
> 
> London 1991
> 
> Back home in the UK, Mycroft’s life has changed forever. He is struggling to come to terms with his new found vampirism and it is not just his own life that has been dramatically impacted, he has a fifteen year old brother to take care of.

Mycroft felt old. It was too noisy, too crowded and all too…unseemly.

He could feel the thumping pulsing music of the nightclub deep in his bones, slick sweat from the too-close air around him was running down the back of his neck and the twirling flashing coloured lights were beginning to hurt his eyes. 

He was too old, he concluded, to be sitting in a smoky, less-than mainstream club, ogling pretty girls in short skirts and handsome boys in tight t shirts. But Anthea had made him come and she usually got her way. He was after all much indebted to her and, like it or not, he was hungry.

 

She had proved to be useful. Very useful indeed. There was a calm quality about Anthea, a sense of detachment and distance that initially made it harder for Mycroft to read her. 

After their first, somewhat hurried, introduction, she had escorted him back to his apartment. He was shocked to discover his previously ransacked and blood-stained home was already tidy. Completely spotless. Floors and walls scrubbed so clean that not a speck of dirt, let alone bodily fluid, had been visible. He was both grateful and appalled at Folcroft’s thoroughness. The man had just technically destroyed a crime scene. And what he had done to his brother had been a crime. A terrible crime. He was supposed to be taking care of him not putting him in hospital. Mycroft was the only family Sherlock had and the boy was his responsibility. Everything just felt such a mess, ever since he came back from Italy.

When Anthea asked the question; ‘How old do you think I am Mr Holmes?’ He knew enough to not answer or at least be very generous with his guessing.

He scanned his new P.A picking up any little nuances about her character. Tall, slim, dark chocolate hair and eyes. She had been dressed in a sharp grey skirt suit that seemed to be both professional yet hug every curve on her body. 

She was indeed a pretty girl, he thought. And he did use ‘girl’. Smooth complexion, no lines around her eyes or mouth, not even slight crinkling. Mycroft put her under thirty; her face even suggested under twenty five. However, mingling with the likes of Folcroft meant that she both very good and efficient or she had important relatives. Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t be so uncharitable. He had been a child protégé after all and his earlier governmental appointment he was barely in his twenties.

‘Twenty eight.’ He suggested as he had gingerly inspected his now-violated home, checking that all items were back in their correct place. 

Anthea’s eyes widened slightly and he couldn’t tell if she had been offended or pleased. How fickle woman can be about their age. Lips curling, her smile at the time seemed secretive as if she was laughing at a private joke that he wasn’t privy to.

 

 

Looking back now, no wonder she laughed at him! Twenty eight-and-a-few-hundred-years-on-top-of-that, Mycroft you fool. 

Her appointment to him had now been very clear. Anthea was a vampire and had been for a very long time.

Initially he baulked at the prospect. Would he live that long, he wondered? Could it possibly be 2191 and not 1991 and he would still be doing the same thing, going about his day exactly the same while everyone he knew was dead and gone. Everyone he loved…that was a short list come to think on it. Would he still be here when Sherlock was no longer around? 

Dreams of living forever were just fancy lyrics in songs and emotional words on tattoos. The reality didn’t quite measure up and he had no desire to be on this earth as long as Anthea had. But what could he really do about it now?

Initially reluctant to discuss her own background, but having lived with her condition for such a long time, she was full of interesting little facts and snippets of information about the life that he would now lead. Essentially she would be a secretary, mentor, chaperone and minder all in the one. Anthea was clearly placed by Folcroft to keep him out of trouble and straighten his life into some semblance or normality. Mycroft was under no delusion Folcroft was doing it for the greater good or the fear that he may attack other unsuspecting members of the public. He really didn’t care about people that much. No doubt it was to make sure that he could still carry out his day to day functions. The inner working of government halted for no man, or vampire it would seem.

 

 

Despite his fears at the time Sherlock had survived and pulled through with barely a scar to show for his adventures. 

He had forgiven his brother, although Mycroft was partly convinced that Sherlock’s forgiveness ran as far as the enticing new information he now had in his possession. The vampire had been prodded, poked and generally manhandled by his brother as soon as the boy was fit to leave hospital.

He had no idea what Sherlock had done with several vials of his blood but apparently it was part of research and experiments. Mycroft shuddered to think.

Sherlock had taken the news of his…condition surprisingly well. For such an analytical boy, Mycroft felt sure that the existence of a creature such as himself would take a while to penetrate. But no. He had never received so much attention from his brother in his life; although he had an awful feeling that he was becoming one of his more interesting lab rats. 

 

 

Speaking of rats, he was currently watching the more sinister London night life scurry around like the proverbial. Yes, Anthea had made him come. After the incident with Sherlock, she had explained that he could not be allowed to do that again. The only problem was that Anthea still looked fairly young and was not out of place in such an establishment. Whereas Mycroft was aware that he appeared around forty and stood out like a sore thumb in his suit. Even out of a suit he stood he still stood out.

She had dressed him in jeans, chinos, and even went as far as to try and squeeze him into a pair of leather trousers. Jumpers made him look ridiculous, cardigans too old, and casual shirts just did not suit him in any fashion…Anthea proclaimed every garment worse than the last. Eventually he was left in peace in his usual attire. The lesser of two evils. Which, funnily enough, is what tonight was about as well.  
Blood wasn’t apparently a choice but a necessity. Otherwise he may become a vicious monster who would attack the nearest person and drain them of blood, most likely killing them. Sherlock had been very lucky to escape with his life.

Although he had impressed Anthea with the amount of time he had managed to restrain himself before Sherlock walked in. At that point the outcome had been inevitable, but if Sherlock hadn’t come to the flat…Anthea had no idea how long it took for a vampire to starve to death, or even if it were possible. She personally rarely went a few weeks without the taste of someone else’s blood although Mycroft had the suspicion that if she had the time, and wouldn’t draw suspicion, then she would indulge every day. She seemed to have accepted her fate and current existence, even relished in it at times. He wasn’t sure he could ever relish the prospect of picking a victim and drinking their blood. Although the act itself was rather…euphoric he had noticed. 

A few days and the pangs of hunger would start; you were never satisfied for long. A few weeks and the thought of blood would be a constant niggling itch in the back of your mind. Six weeks and the effects would begin to take its toll on the body. Hair, skin, and nails…the longer he left it the more….corpse-like he would begin to look. By seven or eight week’s mental faculty would be affected and by the time Sherlock walked in on him he would have been nothing but an animal with the desire to tear flesh and drink blood. 

No wonder he couldn’t remember doing it. He was running on instinct.

Anthea had flounced off with a group of men earlier who looked horrifically like your stereotypical American biker. Walls of towering leather clad muscle with facial hair and bad attitudes to match. He was initially a little worried about her but remembered her absolute elation in sinking fangs into their last victim and decided he didn’t know who he felt sorrier for.

Settling himself in a small dark corner as far from the blaring music as he could manage, he ordered himself a fine expensive brandy to at least put up pretence of normalcy. Unfortunately unable to drink it, it remained untouched on the table in front of him. 

The long padded booth allowed him to watch other patrons as they passed by, danced, stumbled and generally got up to much more energetic activities in the dark. For several minutes now Mycroft had been watching a young man flirt around the crowd near to where he sat. He watched him discretely him from under his eyes as he plied his trade among the various patrons. 

Mycroft knew exactly what he was selling; the relaxed casualness of his flirting, scanning the crowds, the walk that changed from strut to swagger to flounce at the drop of a hat. A cigarette seemed to be perpetually stuck between pursed lips and once finished the butt was used to light the next before it too was placed. Dark hair flopped artistically into his eyes which Mycroft noticed he habitually swept back with one hand. He was wearing denim faded in patches at the knees and bottom and a tight white t-shirt; an outfit that Mycroft had been reliably informed that he himself could not pull off. 

He was good looking-Mycroft could see him in the dark better than anyone could see him he reckoned. Lean, pale, almost stretched out the kind of look a skinny adolescent has who just had another growth spurt. He used ‘boy’ because if he was old enough to drink in this establishment then he would have been surprised.

Whether fate or chance or the fact he had been sitting alone his turn inevitably came about as the boy sank on the sofa beside him with a cheeky ‘hey’.

Mycroft concluded humans were their own worst enemy. How willingly they walked into being victims. Should there not have been some small part at the back of his mind that told people to be afraid of the dark and what lies in it stop him from throwing himself at the most dangerous monster in the room? The boy was unlikely selling his…services if he had much of a choice, but even so. Did no one look closely anymore, did no one observe? Surely it would have been apparent that the older man didn’t fit in and anyone with some semblance of analytical thought should have wondered exactly what he would be doing.

He really shouldn’t take advantage of their stupidity. But still. He was hungry. And the boy was just sitting there…he gave a small nod in greeting as the new arrival lounged across the seat, making himself comfy. Legs and arms splayed across the furniture, giving the impression of a forced relaxed ease and the press of one thigh along the length of his and the fingers playing with the back of his collar were certainly not shy.  
The profile in the dark, all sharp angles, the curly black hair…there was a familiarity to him. Sherlock. Good lord, the boy reminded him of Sherlock. Well that just wouldn’t do. If he closed his eyes, Mycroft could almost feel the memory of ripping into ~Sherlock’s throat. But the feeling was hazy and vague, like trying to remember a dream once you have woken up and your mind doesn’t want to retain he information. He really didn’t want to do that again if he could help it.

The tone that snapped him out of his horrific contemplation was bold, fully of a self-assured arrogance but not the same as his brothers back chatting smart mouth. This arrogance was playful, flirty, more sexually charged than school boy know it all.

‘So what’s your kink?’

His voice was an assault to Mycroft’s ears initially; deep, guttural, classic London cockney accent that was so thick it could be spread.

He raised an eyebrow in question, ‘Kink?’

The newcomer rolled perfectly bottle green eyes. ‘Oh don’t give me it. You don’t look like you are here for fun.’ He ran his eyes over Mycroft’s suit. ‘What do you do, working in a fucking bank, love?’

Mycroft could only twist his mouth into a half sly smile, ‘something like that.’

Shrugging, he was inevitably used to people be less than forth coming about their personal lives and left it at that, not pressing for more information. 

‘Everyone here has a kink.’

Mycroft still shook his head while the boy grinned at him, eyes racking over his body in the dark. No doubt he was thinking that from Mycroft attire that he had moment. Well he wouldn’t be wrong certainly but no doubt he was ‘chosen’ for a cosy one on one chat because he looked as if he could afford to pay.

‘Listen I’m not here to judge. You want to dress up like a baby and have some women breast feed you, have a midget ride you like a pony, get needles poked through your nipples, tie someone up and spank them…I doubt anyone here does vanilla.’

Mycroft hoped his face didn’t quite look as disgusted as he felt at the moment. Although he couldn’t say what the boy said was untrue. This wasn’t the first time he had been here and he had certainly seen some unusual sights.

 

The last had been, again, with Anthea. This little club was a favourite…he hated to use the word hunting when talking about people, but he really had no better adjective for what vampires did, ground. She managed to chat up a pretty petite blonde who was dressed like a flawless porcelain doll. She has skin to match and actual blond ringlets.

It didn’t take much convincing for her to retire for the night with both he and Anthea. The level of alcohol and class A drugs consumed between he two ladies was phenomenal, although of course it had no effect on the vampire. Anthea couldn’t drink but apparently all manner of injectable, inhalable and smokable substances were not off limits. She did love a party and their new victim was only happy to take part in her excesses. 

Mycroft had refrained from interaction initially, but he will admit he had thoroughly enjoyed watching two very pretty women engage in sex. Whether it was his new vampire status or the sensory perks that came with it, it had been quite enticing watching creamy skin writhe on the bed while Anthea's head disappeared between her legs. He could almost see the girls blood pulse with every sweep of his P.A’s tongue…Anthea had taken her blood at the moment of climax when it would be least noticed.

Sated and happy their new found victim happily fell asleep-probably aided by the drugs and alcohol. It was then that he was invited over and he took a little blood from his unconscious victim. It felt more than a little dirty taking something without someone else’s consent. His mind rationalised at least he hadn’t had sex with her, which unbelievably, Anthea suggested. He may be skating thin on morals recently but he wasn’t about to abuse an unconscious woman. But still…was blood really any better? Leaving her with a foggy memory, possible anaemia and a few notes to get home along with a fancy hotel room for the night?  
She had been awfully pale and still when they left her sleeping away her high on the bed.

‘You are positive she is not dead?’

‘She’s breathing.’ Anthea’s tone was exasperation at his apparent squeamishness.

‘Yes but for how long. How many vampires drinking would it take to kill someone?’

‘One actually. You or I could drain her of enough blood in one go to kill her but we didn’t take that much this night as a pair. She will probably wake up queasy and light headed.’

‘You are positive she will wake up? Maybe we should call her an ambulance.’

Anthea rolled her eyes clearly hinting that he was being a soft touch.

‘And tell them what? Excuse me officer we are two vampires who have just singled out a victim, consumed some highly illegal drugs had sex and drank all her blood, you want to come and make sure she is ok for us?’

‘I meant anonymously.’

 

But they left it and her without doing anything else. It did take him a while to get over the guilt but unfortunately it didn’t stop him. Since he was refusing to outright attack people in the streets like, his Italian counterparts Mycroft had been forced to adopt Anthea's slightly sinister underhand method of tricking people during situations in which they would be less aware.

‘Do you have a name?’ He really shouldn’t encourage him but he was nice, chatty, reasonably intelligent and fucking gorgeous. Although Mycroft was very conscious he was selling something. Would the boy be quite as accommodating if he wasn’t a potential customer?

‘Simon.’ He offered freely and without hesitation, indicating for Mycroft to share his own.

‘Mycroft.’

He actually gave a gentle shake of his hand in greeting which surprised Mycroft. His hand was soft, warm and the older man could actually feel his perpetually cold hands leech some of that warmth for the pink skin clasped in his. As long fingers brushed the back of Simon’s hand he could feel the warm pulsing throb of heartbeat luring him in.

‘That is actually your real name.’

‘How would you know? And I assume Simon is not yours.’

He was giving him an odd expression, almost pitying.

‘You don’t do this often do you? And no one would make up a name like that. People would assume you are lying anyway.’

‘My parents had a twisted sense of humour I’m sure, you should meet my brother. You think me naive boy. I am not. I know exactly what this place is.’

Simon didn’t look convinced but at least want looking at him with a worryingly sympathetic expression.

‘I don’t think you are naïve but you certainly aren’t used to being here. Something has forced you to come when you normally wouldn’t. You don’t seem particularly happy to be sitting here skulking in your corner with your untouched drink. Look around, everyone else is happy.’

‘Are you happy?’

The boy spread his arms wide, mischievous grin in place, ‘I sell happy, love.’

Mycroft laughed drily despite himself. Simon certainly had one of those cheerful personalities that seemed to lend itself to making other people smile. But more often than not there was something painful underneath. The man forever a joker on the outside was covering for something less than humorous on the inside.

'How old are you?'

Simon gave a considering smile, 'How old do you want me to be pet?'

Mycroft only shook his head slowly. No, this wasn't a game he was interested in playing. His own childhood had enough of that. Eventually giving a small shrug the boy didn't meet his eye as he mumbled, 'Twenty-one.'

'You are not.' Mycroft knew there was no way Simon was that old. 

His reply was a tad defensive. 'How would you know!?'

'You lie horribly for someone in your...profession.'

Mycroft didn't need any particular vampiric senses for this one. He had spent a life time-a career-observing people and their nuances. He could usually tell easily when someone was lying.

'Nineteen.' Was eventually offered with a slight hesitation. Did he worry he was too old for Mycroft's tastes? Too young? Would he be loosing out on a customer for not being what they wanted through no fault but the year he was born? If he had answered the boy originally no doubt he would have made up his age to suit.

'You do not look it.' And he didn't. He looked far younger

'Good genes I guess and I know I have a baby face others have said before.'

Mycroft shuddered to think the kind of 'others' who would appreciate a young barely-legal-looking boy. It was making him a little uncomfortable, however he was snapped out of the darker recesses of his mind and personal experience with the continued enthusiasm of the youth next to him.

‘So, love, don’t be shy, what’s your kink?’

My, he was persistent. Did he really look that desperate or lonely that professionals were seeking him out? The boy was looking at him expectantly. Well, Mycroft thought. Should he say? This was certainly the place for it given some of the displays he currently saw on the dance floor and no one even batted an eyelid. Would he run screaming or think that the government official was definitely one of the ‘weird ones’.

Oh well, here goes, ‘Blood.’

‘Blood?’

He nodded slowly. Simon wasn’t running or screaming at least. Face perfectly schooled and neutral. He briefly wondered how many times the boy had to do that when other clients asked for things. Things he would rather not do. Mycroft and Sherlock had plenty of years to perfect their own poker faces in the Holmes household.

‘Mine or yours?’

‘Yours.’ 

Mycroft held his breath, still waiting for some sort of rebuttal.

‘My blood...you what? Drink it?’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Who automatically assumed people drank blood? He had watched a man being caned within an inch of his life last time he was here until small rivulets of blood began to creep down the back of his thighs. Drinking it was the first thing that came to the boys mind? Maybe his request wasn’t so uncommon?

‘Hey, you aren’t the only one that does it. Big dude, black hair, you might have seen him around. Wears an honest to god cape, like to think of himself as fucking Dracula or something. Carries a small razorblade and nicks someone’s skin and drinks the blood off. All the girls love him because he does the fucking accent.’

‘My, jealous are we?’ Mycroft teased but Simon gave him a withering look.

‘Pfft, no. I’m prettier than he is.’

‘Of that I have no doubt.’

Simon was grinning at him, clearly pleased with the compliment.

‘You have done it before?’ Mycroft asked. The boy seemed a little too comfortable when Mycroft himself was in no way comfortable with what he had to do.

Shrugging noncommittally, Simon was back to trailing his collar line with fingertips. Each swipe was delicately brushing the fine hairs at the back of his neck. It was beginning to tickle in a rather pleasant way. 

‘A woman used to come to me from time to time. Not seen her in a while but she liked the same thing you do. We’d fuck, she had those little plastic caps on her teeth, you know, the ones that make it look like you have fangs-‘

Mycroft was willing to bet a considerable amount of money those hadn’t been plastic or fake. People see what they want to see.

‘-and she would end up biting me or sticking a needle in me. Didn’t really hurt. Felt quite good after a bit, relaxing. She never really took a lot. It wasn’t like she was opening up a vein or anything.’

Mycroft had seen a few fakes but never another real vampire, not in this club, as far as he was aware anyway. Except Anthea of course. A young couple he noticed earlier had the fake fangs and the pale faces. He could tell they were not real from the consumption of alcohol but they also didn’t…feel right. He couldn’t quite explain it. When he concentrated there was something…alive about Simon, something there that he could sense. Something that was altogether missing when he looked at Anthea. But of course he knew what to look for now. But the couple proceeded to the dance floor to get a little closer, kissing and groping and fondling fondled until Mycroft eventually spotted small bruised patches and bloody bite marks on their neck. Fetishists, nothing more.

He turned half in Mycroft’s direction; one long leg resting bent on the leather seat and rested his head on one arm on the back of the chair as he winked at him and leaned in closer.

‘So, your place or mine?’

Mycroft licked his lips and considered. It was a thought certainly. He could pay the boy for his…time, and maybe he wouldn’t feel so bad about taking the blood if he was giving something in return? He was just buying a service like buying a sandwich in a shop or hiring a tux or calling out a plumber. Some service you and you compensated them for it. Ok so maybe this wasn’t exactly like a plumber but the principle was similar. Or was he grasping at straws? The boy was used to selling his body, Mycroft could take a little blood instead, he wasn’t technically hurting him…

Oh this was a bad idea probably but it was the best he could think of now. He really had no stomach for seducing strangers and coaxing them home with him. He would leave that to Anthea, business transactions were certainly more of his thing, Mycroft could negotiate business.

He decided as the boy lit another cigarette taking a long satisfying draw, small mischievous smile crooking his lips. 

He was probably going to regret this terribly. ‘Yours.’


	28. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4: Brothers Till The End
> 
> London 1991
> 
> Back home in the UK, Mycroft’s life has changed forever. He is struggling to come to terms with his new found vampirism and it is not just his own life that has been dramatically impacted, he has a fifteen year old brother to take care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for lack of updates. Thanks to every wonderful person who reads and reviews. However series three of Sherlock has offered some inspiration to keep writing. Totally shafted on canon about the abusive Holmes parents though. But hey ho, AU so we will run with it anyway.

The thought of trying to be intimate with someone you just met made Mycroft increasingly uncomfortable as he was deposited in a rather run-down but surprisingly clean flat in one of the less than savoury areas of London. No matter how good looking the person was, it was still a little awkward. Maybe if he could get drunk it may have helped, as it seemed to do for the rest of the London bar and club populous. But he could not so that point was redundant.

No sooner had he sat on the edge of the creaky double bed than Simon-if that was his real name-pounced. No doubt the boy was used to people being eager. In, out, so to speak, job done and paid for the night.

Still, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The soft warm mouth currently trailing down his jaw line and disappearing into his collar did have some measure of skill. He could easily get lost in the pleasurable sensations as gentle kisses ghosted over his skin. Simon found a lovely little spot just below his ear and _sucked_ …Mycroft shivered. Oh now that was good.

A hand slid under his jacket and made to push it off his shoulder causing Mycroft to react instinctively and probably somewhat aggressively. Quick as lightening he grabbed the offending hand which only earned a shocked look from the other man at the surprising speed and strength coming from this supposed middle aged politician.

Was that just a little tinge of fear in his eyes? Fingers wriggled helplessly as muscled tightened in his grip. 

Now that was becoming exciting, just a little. Mycroft sighed internally. His already fragile moral compass had become somewhat skewed in recent months. Was there something about being dead that now you wanted to toy with the mortals a little? Anthea certainly liked to have her fun.

‘Sorry. I-I do not like being undressed.’

The boy smiled, easy, relaxed. The trepidation was all but gone from his smooth features in an instant. He was clearly used to trying to put clients at ease. 

Intent on being accommodating he shifted his hands slightly to the outside of his suit.

‘No problem. You don’t like taking your clothes off. It’s just your jacket. Get a little more…comfy.’

Reluctantly, Mycroft acquiesced to take his suit jacket off, leaving him in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He could live with that. The less naked his body the less explanation he would have to do about the marks littering his skin from childhood. Now was not the time to discuss _that_. He didn’t discuss that topic at all really. Not even with family let alone practical strangers.

Simon stood gracefully positioning himself just in front of the sitting Mycroft. With a casual practiced ease he grabbed two handfuls at the bottom of his t-shirt and pulled it up and over his head with a flourish.  
Pale statue-like skin met Mycroft’s vision. Lean and incredibly skinny there was the briefest outline of ribs on the boys torso and a very minimal amount of hair scattered over his chest. The trail glided down his stomach and disappearing into the waistband of jeans currently hanging artfully on very thin hips. 

Malnourished? Not earning enough from his current job for decent meals? Or was this his natural physique much like the perpetually thin look of his brother? Oh dear, now was not the time to be thinking of Sherlock. It only reminded Mycroft of how similar both boys seemed to be looks wise. However personality was something else entirely. Perhaps Sherlock could learn a few lessons in being more amiable. Although, perhaps not so amiable as to be selling your body for money. 

Given that he was currently _‘buying’_ , Mycroft reasoned that he probably should not be quite a judgemental just at this moment.

Swallowing, he dragged his mind back to the figure in front of him which may have been a mistake. He should have stuck to the unpleasant but entirely familiar and safe images in his head. The vampire could almost see the blood flow under Simon’s perfect skin. He could almost taste it…

Instinctively, hands reached out to rest on exposed hips. Warm, his skin was so warm. So full of life.

A small giggle above him and Simon squirmed under his touch.

‘God your hands are cold, love.’

He had no idea. The poor boy. Mycroft could practically feel his fingers leech the warm humanity from him, heating himself at the expense of another.

Fingers cupped his chin forcing his gaze upwards. Mycroft’s eyes fell across the clear crystal blue looking back at him from an impossibly beautifully sculpted face. With a small smile the boy leaned forward, hands rubbing Mycroft’s shoulders in a soothing manner as their lips met.

This isn’t right, he thought. This isn’t what he was here for. It was only the blood that he needed. Mycroft didn’t need to degrade the boy and himself further by taking sex as well. But the mouth under his was skilful, incredible expert at drawing pleasure. A soft tongue danced across his lips until the vampire parted them. Demanding his wilful participation.

Things progressed rapidly. Kisses became heated, more forceful. Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of responding, enjoying the caress for a few moments as his hands wandered the delicate torso that was currently rubbing along the front of his still-clothed body.

Without warning hands left his shoulders and Mycroft opened his eyes just in time to see Simon loosen his belt and let his jeans spill to the floor. If he had had underwear then the government official never saw it.  
He was hard and ready, well, Mycroft supposed you would have to be in this kind of job, it was sort of expected. Darker skin standing out proudly from a thick patch of dark hair between his legs. 

Drawn in by the sight and beautiful expanse of nakedness, Mycroft leaned forwards automatically, lips connecting with downy pallid skin just under the sternum. 

He was becoming warmer as he made a small trail of kisses across a flat toned stomach. Lips heated from the vast expanse of bare skin, Mycroft finally stopped just short of the belly button, while Simon ran encouraging appreciative fingers through his hair.

A quick glance downwards and the boy’s manhood was quivering just inches from him. For a brief moment Mycroft wondered what it would be like to sink teeth into him there. Would it hurt tremendously? Would it taste different? He was tempted to try as the small niggling pang in his stomach was telling him he needed blood. He would certainly need blood before he did anything sexual. 

He could feel aroused, the spark of desire could be fired up easily just like anyone else but Mycroft learned early on that his body wouldn’t perform a physical response until he increased the amount of blood in his system. Thank you Anthea for that disturbing little bit of information. Apparently female vampires had no such problem. Although there was an issue with personal lubrication… _that_ had been a conversation he had not needed in his life. Ever.

Simon’s fingers were weaving through his tie while he was distracted. He was smirking at him, no doubt thinking he was the cause of Mycroft’s distraction. Well, Mycroft supposed the boy was right. But the vampire wondered if the smirk would still be in place had he known it wasn’t the lovely sight of his nakedness that distracted him, it was the thought of covering all the very white skin in very red blood.  
His tie was being unloosened and Mycroft had to grab both of Simon’s hands in his own.

‘No my clothes stay on.’

A cheeky smile was the only response, ‘You don’t need clothes for this part pet.’

Mycroft blushed. Blood. That was all he wanted really, not the comforting embrace of another human being. Not the soft lips or lean torso or long legs tangled around him…

‘Let’s get comfy.’ 

Simon’s purr was more salacious than the words hinted at. Mycroft was in no way comfortable but his tie and waistcoat were off before he knew it. However the boy stopped, not removing anything else yet and leaving him blissfully covered in shirt and suit trousers.

He slid into Mycroft’s lap, the older man acutely aware of the press of a naked erection against the front of his body. He could feel the wonderful firmness through his thin cotton shirt as Simon curled his frame around him and leaned in for another kiss.

He was good, Mycroft would give him that. Moving things along but not rushing, not being forceful or dominant. Oh he was sure the boy would do it if asked, but keeping things on track to the eventual goal. He tried not to think of the eventual goal. His goal and Simons were likely two very different things at this point.

A tongue probed at his mouth, tangling with his own, leaving the sickly sweet taste of whatever noxious concoction the younger man had been drinking at the club earlier. Mycroft’s hands skimmed across the Simon’s back, defined shoulder blades and eventually came to rest at the softer peachy skin of his arse. He allowed himself a small caress and was rewarded with a definite moan into his mouth as his paramour wriggled slightly on his lap.

Turning from his position it was easy to deposit the boy on his back on top of the bedcovers whilst Mycroft’s partially clothed body covered his. Having a warm yielding and writhing body underneath you was appealing, Mycroft had to admit. Leaving the boys lips for a moment he trailed gentle open mouthed kisses along a razor sharp cheekbone and soft neck. Hovering just at the jugular, he could feel the big pulse in the other man’s throat beat and flutter. The vampire could practically taste him on the tip of his tongue and toyed with the idea of talking his blood now. Should he ask first? Technically Simon had already agreed…he would be getting paid at the end of this.

Mycroft settled for grazing fangs lightly over the skin. The boy wriggled under him moaning-perhaps a little over exaggeratedly-in pleasure. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it; perhaps he shouldn’t be doing this at all. This game was doing nothing to preserve his sense of control.

Mycroft had no real idea what he was planning on doing but continued a path down Simon’s torso, lavishing attention across one flat male nipple. Cautiously, and careful not to break the skin, he gently nipped with his teeth. He wasn’t sure if he got a first drop of blood he would stop, the tension and build up was becoming quite pleasurable so tried to be infinitely careful. Tugging a mouthful of soft tummy flesh, he sucked firmly before soothing the area with his tongue, just enough to leave a mark where a love bite would likely form tomorrow.

He had just come to groin level, rolling eyes up the line of Simon’s body and catching the heavy hooded gaze looking back at him, hair tangled and breathing rapidly. Mycroft could hear the increased heartbeat; feel the blood rushing through the veins under his fingers with alarmingly clarity. The thick pulse beat was pulsing with his own, at his very centre. No wonder all the vampire stories were tied up with sex, why they hunted, like Anthea did, at sex clubs and bars. It provided…spice to the meal so to speak. Their struggling and squirming and dilated pupils were all an appetiser to the main course. And afterwards…well they were too blissfully unaware to do anything about it, you could have your way with them and they would be turned on and entirely thankful for it.

‘Am I not supposed to be doing this for you love?’

Mycroft shook his head, drawn back to the very real person lying spread under him. He wasn’t just dinner, he wasn’t just a toy to be played with. The vampire would have to focus on that intently. Settling for blowing a jet of warm breath across the firm cock in front of him, Mycroft watch the delicate appendage twitch and jerk as Simon bucked his hips and arched his back, unable to stop soft excited moans escaping him.

On second thoughts…It would be so easy to take a bite. What did it matter to him if he hurt the boy? Was that not now the game? They were the victims and he was the hunter. No one could hurt _him_ now. Not again. Not ever. 

Eventually Mycroft baulked at the prospect. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t be a monster, whatever it took. Vengeance was not his to dish out. Especially on people who really had done nothing to him.  
He settled for burying his face in the warm crotch, nuzzling the soft loose skin of the boy’s balls. Moving slightly to the side, there was something enticing about the junction of the thighs, the delicate line, just where leg met torso. Moving towards the very apex of Simon’s thighs Mycroft struck, sinking teeth firmly into the soft tender skin. A startled cry rang out under him, obviously in a little pain and shock.

‘Ow, fucking hell!’

Wriggling on the bed there was nothing he could do to remove the vampire, needle-like pincers already embedded in skin. Mycroft’s hands came to rest on the boy’s hips, pushing him back against the bed, stroking and soothing as he moaned and writhed while Mycroft lapped the bloodied skin like a kitten. 

The soft velvety skin of his cock was brushing Mycroft’s cheek gently, rubbing back and forth with the odd drop of precum smearing across the vampire’s skin as they rocked together in feeding and caressing.  
He could usually easily describe the taste of blood. As a human Mycroft always said it was metallic, thick and heavy. Quite unpleasant really. However whether his condition now changed thoughts, he couldn’t find words to describe the first few mouthfuls of sweet viscous liquid. It wasn’t unpleasant now certainly, it was remarkably delicious, rolling across his tongue like a fine cognac used to do. He lapped and sucked and enjoyed the soft gasps of excitement and frantic flexing of Simon’s hips in an attempt to gain a little friction along the member rubbing against his cheek.

Reluctantly, after several glorious minutes, Mycroft drew his mouth away with a final swipe of tongue across the area, removing any small rivulets of blood escaping from the wound.

Under him Simon was completely prone on the bed, dark head back against the pillows and eyes closed. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. He looked completely spent and beautiful in the process.

‘What did you do to me?’ He mumbled, not even opening his eyes.

‘I didn’t do anything, I told you I like to bite.’

‘Ok.’ His voice sounded a little distant, dreamy. Mycroft wondered if he had taken a little too much blood.

Simon’s eyes opened pupils a little too wide, excessively dilated. His hooded gaze wandered over the still partially clothed vampire as he pushed himself up to his elbows.

‘You want to finish it then?

‘Finish it?’ Mycroft enquired as he glanced over his shoulder and scanned the floor for his discarded clothing.

‘You have not…uh.’ The boy trailed off as Mycroft kneeled on the bed making to slid off in search of his jacket.

‘You want me to suck you off?’

Mycroft spluttered and licked his lips. With the lovely taste of blood still lingering in his mouth he scanned the lithe skinny youth sprawled across the bed. His mouth had been talented in kissing, those soft wet lips were tantalising. Enjoying the thought that he could have that delicate Cupid’s bow on his for a few moments long, spurring him to release…he shouldn’t. He had got his blood and should probably just go.

‘No, no don’t do that.’ Mycroft felt he would just explain that was him finished, pay and leave quickly before he did something else he may regret.

He didn’t get a chance. Simon took his refusal for something else. 

‘Top drawer then.’ And he nodded to the bedside table as he lazily flipped himself across to his stomach. 

Shuffling automatically to the edge of the bed, Mycroft reached over to tug the table drawer glancing back at the small play of muscles curling and bunch under very firm skin as Simon got to his hands and knees. The older man turned back just at the movement to see a delicate round backside sticking in the air and the boy’s large green eyes blinking owlishly at him where his cheek was pressed against the pillow.

Mycroft tore his gaze away from the splendid sight and focused on the contents of the drawer. All manner of toys and instruments were gathered, along with a large bundle of condoms and a few bottles of various lubes all in varying stages of use.

Oh dear. That’s not what he planned. But a quick glance at the rather wanton display on the bed wasn’t doing anything to discourage the mounting arousal in him. Simon was a terrible distraction and Mycroft was sorely tempted to indulge.

He almost laughed as he picked up and gently fingered a square foil packet. There was no need. He couldn’t catch anything the boy had and the vampire was, well, dead. He carried no diseases; even a cold did not present a problem to him any longer.

For propriety sake he tore open the wrapper. If he was doing this, it would need to look normal. How could he explain that there wouldn’t be any need without sounding like a raving lunatic? Although Simon’s general acceptance of all manners of depravity so far lead Mycroft to think the news wouldn’t go down as quite a big a shock.

Staring down at the item in hand he gently opened his own fly.

‘You not taking them off?’

‘I don’t like being undressed.’

‘What, do you sleep in that fucking suit?’

‘What I mean is, I don’t like being undressed in front of people.’

His reply was a little short, probably bad tempered but the boy still lay there like a good pet, passive and waiting for whatever Mycroft would chose to do to him. It made him a little sick to think of another person acting in that way.

Simon gave him a bright smile, the sexual one he gave out so freely at the club, a mischievous twinkle in his eye not bothered by Mycroft’s rebuttal.

‘Come on love, I want you.’ He wiggled his arse playfully in the air.

Of course he didn’t really, Mycroft thought. He was supposed to say that. But _still_. Still the boy was pretty and the blood had invigorated him.

Releasing himself from the confined of his trouser, Mycroft carefully rolled the condom onto his own cock before grabbing one of the bottles of lubricant and crawled further onto the bed.

The boy’s eyes were wide and surprised.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’ Mycroft repeated.

‘Nothing, you using that?’ Simon nodded at the small bottle of lube.

‘Why?’

He gave a small noncommittal shrug of shoulders before turning his head to rest his cheek back on the pillow.

‘A lot of people don’t.’

‘That has to hurt.’

‘Some people enjoy pain.’ His tone was flat, neither approving nor disproving.

Mycroft knew all too well what some people enjoyed.

‘It’s not hurting them, it’s hurting you.’

Another small noncommittal movement, as if it didn’t matter to him whether he was in pain or not, whether the violation of his body was nothing to do with him. Mycroft wanted to shake the boy, or hug him. He wasn’t sure quite which yet.

The guilt of his abuse was increasing. Not enough though to finish crawling across the bed and not enough for his improved vampire vision to memorise every curve, freckle and blemish on the beautiful body currently pointing in his direction.

Slicking fingers, Mycroft instated one lubricate finger into the tight puckered hole winking at him. It sank in easily with little resistance. Gently probing and massaging, he carefully inserted a second stretching the area, gently beckoning his fingers ensuring the inner walls were gently stretched and wet. By the time a third finger went in Simon was bucking his hips back and forth in ever increasing motions and firmness. Mycroft took that as his cue that he was ready. With a final squirt of lube well massaged into his own condom covered cock he pressed against the entrance.

The boy’s body welcomed him eagerly, sliding forward with no resistance, swallowing Mycroft to the hilt in one go until his suit trousers were resting against his bare backside. Mycroft realised his mistake in not undressing. He was going to be a terrible mess at the end of this.

Hips moved and Simon made all the right appreciative noises but it still felt very…artificial. There was no love in this, no intimacy. Not even the thinly veiled illusion of pleasure that would last mere seconds and disappear even more quickly. Talking blood had seemed far more erotic than this. Far more pleasurable.

Mycroft had a sudden urge to get a genuine reaction. Leaning across he licked a long trail up the boys spine as his hips pushed him further into the bed. It earned him a small excited shiver, so he did it again. Finishing with his teeth bared against a soft nape of neck, Mycroft nuzzled the skin whilst managing to wriggle a hand between his body and the bed.

He timed his movements carefully, firmly squeezing and tugging on the younger man’s erection in time with his own movements. As the opportune moment arose Mycroft took his chance and bit down on the soft tender flesh of Simon’s neck. The bite pushed them both over the edge. Simon clearly enjoyed the pain mixed with pleasure and Mycroft enjoyed the sweet tangy taste of blood for the second time that night. 

Satisfied in more than one way, they lay panting and curled together on the bed in a tangle of limbs and clothing. This was going to become a very bad habit. Mycroft could sense it.


End file.
